Plague
by Obsidian Blade
Summary: Something of an adventure story and a dark prehistoric soap. Sickness ravages a kabutops community, leaving only youngsters ill-equipped to look after themselves and two legendary fighters fast approaching utter breakdown: the Bladesworn.
1. Prologue

**PLAGUE**  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Prologue

_Hide._

A simple command, easily disobeyed. The kabutops struck in the early evening, the sunlight gleaming murderous gold across their helms. They surged down steep paths into the knee-deep water of the omastars' bay and by nightfall, every last omastar had rallied to see them off. The youngest omanyte were on their own.

Sneaking out required no stealth at all. Even the roar of the tide was drowned out by the shouts and shrieks of battle; no one would hear their scraping shells as four tiny hatchlings climbed the Wall of Bones. They wrapped their tentacles around naked femurs and rested their bodies against jutting ribs as the swirling water, thick with blood and silt, fell further and further below. Their ancestors had packed the bodies of their victims into this towering monument as a tribute to their tribal strength. Now the youngest generation gave the wall a more practical use.

From the top, nestled in a grovyle's empty eye socket, they saw everything. Explosions of spray struck the towering granite cliffs at the back of the bay as the tide surged in. Dying omastar flailed in the surf, black blood drooling from their wounds. Kabutops writhed and hissed, impaled by heavy spines and trampled underfoot. Bodies sprawled from cliff to cliff. Very few were lucky enough to lie still.

This wasn't what the hatchlings expected. They'd only been alive twelve weeks and already knew endless tales of blood and glory: omastar heroes rounding up the enemy and mincing them in one quick barrage of spines; kabutops turning and fleeing like the cowards they were at the first sign of danger. In a few places the omanyte picked out scattered groups of kabutops breaking against unified packs of omastar, their scythes glancing off armoured shells as the defenders drew together to hide their bodies, but the victors simply looked tired. Amongst injured howls and dying whimpers, the omanyte heard no cheering.

A sudden metallic scream, however, was very real.

'Haakmin!'

The bellow burst from the last organised group of kabutops just as a black and silver warrior broke from their ranks, driving her scythes through the nearest omastar without so much as a glance in his direction. Irreverently she bounded over his shuddering body, immediately surrounded by her foes. She didn't falter. Both wickedly sharp blades swung in broad, shattering arcs, slicing through flesh and spines alike as her talons bit through mud into the solid stone beneath. Lowering the sweeping shield of her head, she rammed the next defender aside and hurtled over a pearly volley of spikes.

Even half the bay away from her, all four omanyte huddled together, their tentacles throbbing with each terrified heartbeat. Aashnin Shaaca's brutal offensive alone would have been enough for anyone in the bay to identify her, but her jet-black armour and thin silver wings made the kabutops' mutant champion unmistakable. She was Bladesworn: one of a trio of kabutops who had blighted the omastar tribe for decades. Suddenly they weren't quite so safe, even seven metres from the ground.

'Haakmin!' Shaaca cried again.

Her taloned foot drove into the body of an upturned omastar. One of their warriors fired a powerful blast of water directly at her torso, but the aashnin rolled fluidly beneath the spray. Almost on all fours, she barrelled shoulder-first into her unfortunate foe, throwing him onto his back. She didn't stop to finish him. With bull-headed determination, she ignored the cries of her allies and raced forward alone, incapacitating those who got in her way more often than she killed.

'She's coming this way.'

The words tumbled out of the youngest onlooker, high-pitched and shaky. All eyes fixed on her, quivering in her shell, as the same terrifying conclusion gripped them all.

'She's going to kill us, isn't she?' said one of the others.

'You should never have come here, Bladesworn.'

All four jumped again at the sound of their own champion's deep, hissing voice. As one, they scurried back to the edge of their perch, peering down into the darkness.

The broad dome of Onomak's heavy shell sat directly beneath them. One of his tentacles trailed against his side, bloodied and useless, but his voice rang with confidence. His enemy stood with both shoulders slumped, his knees clearly weakening. The kabutops' muted brown shell sported fractures over his shoulder, head and thigh; his very armour seemed to be crumbling away from each injury. They were a healer's defences, too soft for combat and, amongst the kabutops' well-bred attack force, they were as telling as Aashnin Shaaca's metal wings. This was Haakmin, the third of the Bladesworn. He could barely lift his scythes.

'Well,' he panted, his green eyes gleaming, 'seems like hindsight... really is a useless thing.'

Onomak's spines shot through the air just as Shaaca bounded between the two, her scythes a silver blur. Four ringing clashes marked impacts between spike and blade. A sickly crunch and wet, rasping exhalation of air marked the one she had missed.

The aashnin roared: a feral, wordless scream of utter fury that sent the hatchlings scrambling back. Even Onomak flinched, but he had no time for hesitation. As Haakmin slumped to the ground the omastar let loose another hail of spikes, only for Shaaca to deflect them all with one downward swipe of her blade. The other arching overhead, she leapt forward, severing two of Onomak's spines and slicing out a chunk of his shell as he ducked inside at the last second.

A high-pressure burst of water caught Shaaca in the chest. Her whole body twisted through the air. The side of her head smacked against the solid spiral of a dead omastar's shell. Visibly reeling from the blow, she pressed the flats of her blades down beneath the water on instinct alone, finding the ground and forcing herself upright.

Not fast enough. A spine caught her between the fins along her back, piercing one of the few gaps in her armour. Blood poured from the wound. She let out another metallic wail from her wings, her own burst of water blasting from her mouth. It caught Onomak directly in the eyes.

Blinded by mud, he let off a reflexive barrage of spines the aashnin easily ducked beneath. She spat out curses as she hurtled forward, her blades scissoring from both sides into his shell. Glancing hits, they did little more than scratch his armour.

It made no difference. She was too close now. As though they had a chance of stopping her, Onomak raised his tentacles in one last futile gesture of defence. Shaaca's scythe sliced straight through them all, through his face, through his eye, down to the ground in a torrent of blood and black ooze. He shuddered, squirmed against death, and spread forward like raw meat.

The omanyte pressed themselves to the wall and wished they had hidden.

'Haakmin.'

The enemy's broken words trailed up to them through the night. A resounding splash followed as she fell to her knees at the other Bladesworn's side.

'Shaaca,' he replied, his voice warming in recognition even as the last syllable gurgled through the blood pooling in his throat.

She traced the contours of his face with the blunt sides of her blades, her eyes darting to the wound. Onomak's barb had punched straight through Haakmin's chest plate, and it quivered with every shuddering breath its victim drew. Four shorter bolts protruded from his lower abdomen. Acid burns marred the side of his face. The blood running from his wounds was already starting to slow. Her throat swelled at the sight until she could barely speak.

Catching the look in his mate's eyes, Haakmin spluttered out a wet, painful laugh.

'Worse than I thought, then,' he said, his whole body shaking with the exertion of speech, 'and here... here I'd thought I might get to play the hero today.'

The attempt at humour was too much effort. The act dropped and he tensed in agony, mining deep into his last reserves of strength to lean up and nuzzle her face. The flats of their cheeks pressed together, they stayed still and silent as the booming voice of their leader announced the retreat. Haakmin drew a gurgling breath.

'We've lost,' he said. 'Tziir knows it and... I'm gone, 'Aaca. You need to run.'

He felt her tense against him. The aashnin could accept a lost battle at a stretch, but not this. Not so close to the Wall of Bones.

'You have to,' he said, cutting her off before she could even argue. 'Kognook needs you.'

She leant back, glaring passionately down at him.

'There are others who could raise him,' she said, but trailed away at the look of horror on her mate's face.

'Don't. Don't even suggest that,' he said with authority so unlike him that Shaaca flinched back at the alien tone. 'He's our _son._ He needs us. But he can't have us. So he must have you. Run.'

'Haakmin.'

The third voice, deep and sombre, came from so close by that Shaaca jumped at the sound, gaze darting about wildly before landing upon the looming form of Kabtaar Tziir. Their leader looked past her to the kabutops gasping on the ground, his shielded head lowered in respect. Slowly the aashnin became aware of four more kabutops in a defensive ring around them, the omastar pressing in on the far side.

'It has been an honour, Bladesworn,' said Tziir.

'No,' she said, darting to her feet. Omotak's spine grated between her fins. 'We can't leave him; Haakmin, I'm not leaving you. You know what they do! Look what they do!'

Her left scythe swept out to indicate the Wall of Bones beside them, all the past enemies of the omastar piled up and compacted into an indistinguishable mass of chalky white. Tziir's head tilted back as he surveyed it, his eyes focusing fleetingly on tiny blue tentacles in a grovyle's head far above. He looked back when Shaaca drew in a sharp breath. Haakmin lay dead on the ground, seawater already pooling in his eye sockets and open mouth.

'What did he say last, Aashnin?' asked the kabtaar quietly, the flat of his blade grazing hers.

Shaaca flinched away from the contact, pulling her gaze sluggishly from her mate's corpse. Her violet eyes met Tziir's blue.

'Run.'

* * *

><p>Because I am an idiot I took this story down, thinking I was going to edit it heavily to match the tone of the prequels I've been writing for it. Fact is, <em>Plague<em> is reeeeally rare in that it's a piece I've written that I actually like, so gutting it and rewriting it has been killing me. Besides, I think this plot is naturally dark anyway so, yes. This is a repost of the original, edited only to fix some of the uglier phrasing. I apologise to my longterm readers for being such a silly, fickle creature. I will be good and set the botched rewrite on fire. To new readers, I hope you enjoy the story. I know there are some slightly confusing titles and stuff in this prologue; the first chapter should clear those up!


	2. Dedication and Determination

**PLAGUE**  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Dedication and Determination

Aashnin Shaaca lurched into a crouch, head low and blades raised in a defensive cross. Her eyes darted about in the wake of a nightmare, taking in the arching sandstone walls overhead and a shallow dip cut into the ground beneath her, ringed with stones and filled with white sand. Down below, the shoreline arched inward on Kabutops Bay, stretching all the way to the opposing arm of the cliff side. Her cave, her ka'aan and her vista, all lit with the golden light of late afternoon, all as usual.

All utterly wrong.

With a ragged hiss of fury she surged to her feet and stormed out of her cave onto a narrow path cut into the cliff face. Every joint ached. Her first stint of sleep in over a week had done nothing to restore her: the skin between her armoured plates crinkled and cracked after hours spent standing in the baking sun day after day.

Shaaca ignored it. A building, all-consuming fire spread through her flesh and pulsed in her temples. The healers, the shiraari, they must have knocked her out and dragged her away from her post. She couldn't possibly have just fallen asleep, not when she needed Kognook – no, when _Kognook _needed_ her – _so very badly.

Her talons dug into the sand as she descended onto the beach, the fire in her veins gathering into a concentrated point of pain just above her left eye. A few young warriors darted out of her way as she strode past them through the surf, sneaking backward glances at the aashnin as she shook her head sharply. The pain wouldn't shift. She had no time to deal with it.

Angular eyes narrowing, the black kabutops reached the far cliff side. A thin stretch of rock coiled around its edge, protruding a good scythe's length above the waves, and Shaaca advanced along it. Her wings buzzed at her back. The healers looked up at the noise as she neared the shiraan, the place where the tribe kept their sick. It hunkered against the looming cliff, protected from the sea by a rough pentagon of tall, upright slabs of stone. Within, thirteen ka'aan provided comfortable beds for injured kabu. Of late, those ka'aan had become the last solid ground many would feel beneath them.

'Aashnin Shaaca,' said the newest head shiraar as the furious warrior stepped between the standing stones.

A young male barely over fifty years old, Shiraar Zehiir had none of his predecessor's authority. His blunt healer's scythes crossed awkwardly above his knees, shoulders hunching and helmed head stooping subserviently as he found himself under the full scrutiny of Shaaca's violet gaze. Her own sickles flexed with disdain at the thought of this scrawny little creature dragging her away from her son.

'Yes?' she spat out, her usual mask of stoicism utterly translucent with the sheer volume of fury brewing beneath.

The shiraar dithered, words catching in his throat, but a few seconds under her seething gaze were more than he could take. He withdrew soundlessly, extending one rounded scythe in the direction of her son.

Three ka'aan sat empty where weakening warriors had lain in the morning, Shaaca noticed with dead indifference. She stepped slowly toward the furthest corner of the shiraan, relying on the proud angle of her head to disguise her reluctant dawdle as a noble, sombre gait. Shiraar Rinaari, the delicate little kabutops charged with Kognook's care, drained the last of the water from his ka'aan and excused herself quietly as the aashnin approached. Under any other circumstances, Shaaca would have appreciated the wordless deference. Here, she wasn't so sure.

Alone, she stared down at the tiny kabuto huddled in the sand. He would have been – he was going to be – seven years old in a matter of weeks, but Kognook hadn't grown much larger than a new hatchling. In health, he never allowed that to stop him. Watching his shell tremble now, his needle legs groping pitiably for something unseen, Shaaca longed for the lurch of her heart as she caught him scaling some precipice, if only for the exhausting surge of relief when she felt his meagre weight on her head, safe and babbling about his new friends amongst the wingull.

'I'm here,' she breathed.

She swallowed her voice, let her words out as mere exhalations. Any louder and Kognook would only hear the grief, not his mother. That couldn't happen.

'Hullo, Kognook.'

Twitching fitfully, the kabuto reached out for her, stretching blindly through the deadening haze of fever for a comforting touch. The desperation in his movements struck Shaaca like a physical blow, fit to rend her in two for all her armour plating.

She froze in the act of offering one blunted scythe to her son, remembering the way other kabutops had lain beside their offspring when the disease first struck the tribe, well before it stole away those hatchlings and their parents alike. She had never been able to do the same, not with the shiraari watching and her title buoying her upright. Those kabutops looked beaten, as though they knew what was coming and lacked the strength to fight against it. Their slack limbs and lowered faces made it clear to all that they had given up on their offspring. Shaaca could never do the same.

But Kognook lay suffering and her chest was tearing apart. The sight of him filled her head with lead. It pushed her to her knees, it lowered her to the ground. For the first time in her life, Aashnin Shaaca prostrated herself on the stone. She pressed the sleek contour of her cheek to Kognook's trembling shell and ducked her chin so he could settle himself on her head when his claws found the arch of her brow.

He couldn't climb. Too weak to find purchase on the smooth obsidian, he scratched at her shell, plaintive at first, then panicking, his breath sawing as his legs strained to lift him. He slipped, gouging Shaaca's eyelid with his talons, and she caught him on the back of her scythe, sweeping him under the broad shield of her head to nestle against her throat. There were no words. As maimed as her son, the aashnin hummed tunelessly against Kognook's shuddering shell and sheltered him from the world. But she could not keep him safe.

o o o

Within the kabutops' maze of tunnels cut deep into the cliffs, Raakin Zetaahn screeched to a halt. His scythes gouged the sandstone walls and his talons grasped at empty space; a colossal cleft that stretched across the path gaped between his toes. Swallowing, he worked his heels back until he stood on both feet. Close call. Water cascaded from the ceiling in front of him, so close his helm glistened with spray. The liquid veil plummeted indefinitely through the chasm; he winced at the echo as a few unfortunate lumps of rock tumbled down with it.

Not that he was afraid of a little drop. No. Young and thin, Zetaahn could climb right back up the gap. It was narrow enough he could reach both sides, it would be easy. He could do it blunt-scythed. No doubt about it.

He tugged his blades from the wall and paused to still his clacking knees. Through the waterfall, he made out the vague shapes of a whole congregation of kabutops. Idly shaking his left sickle in the hopes of dislodging an impaled pebble, he tilted his head closer to the spray, listening intently. No steady thrum of voices filtered back.

The junior warrior frowned. He was fairly sure he was late. Very late, in fact. So late he had expected to catch his kabtaar halfway through one of his usual speeches, providing the perfect backdrop for Zetaahn's own soaring leap into the centre of attention, possibly including some sort of somersault. Then again, perhaps he could make use of the silence too. He could enter with the refined, regal gait of the kabtaar himself, head held high, scythes folded casually at his sides, the picture of suave excellence.

'Raakin,' a deep voice boomed, the kabutops word for warrior apprentice laced with the first warning hiss of irritation, 'either you will step inside or you will return to whatever enthralling activity made you late in the first place. Eavesdropping will earn you nothing.'

Yelping, Zetaahn leapt reflexively through the waterfall and into the middle of a round, vaulted chamber. He stumbled to a halt right beside the largest kabutops in the cave. The kabtaar was nearly twice Zetaahn's height, with dark brown armour and ornamental cuts sliced into his shield-shaped helm. He regarded the raakin with guarded blue eyes. The rest of the tribe stared in amusement or derision – Zetaahn chose not to differentiate.

'I'm sorry I'm late,' he said quickly, tripping into a clumsy bow that nearly brought his head smacking into the chest of his leader.

'Quite,' Kabtaar Tziir replied, raising his gaze from the raakin to the crowd as a whole. 'If you will kindly join your fellows, I will continue.'

Zetaahn crept to the back as his elder's voice shifted from stern to emphatic.

'For all the losses we have suffered from this plague,' Tziir said, 'the omastar have made no move against us. Some have postulated a fledgling sense of honour in the enemy, but I know this is not so. Some have suggested we no longer present a threat to the omastar, but I know, and every kabutops knows, that this can never be.'

Sidestepping his way through the crowd, Zetaahn ducked in beside a sandy-gold coloured kabutops.

'Siira,' he hissed.

The pale raakin ignored him entirely, her clear blue eyes trained attentively on the Kabtaar.

'Siira!' he said again, elbowing her in the side.

'What?' she snapped back at a whisper, glaring at him.

'Hullo,' he said, earning a roll of her eyes. 'How did the kabtaar know I was there?'

She huffed irritably. 'You squealed like a mammal! And your nose stuck right through the water. Everyone was staring while you were dallying out there. You know,' she added, glowering, 'I'm actually ashamed on your behalf. So just shut up and pay attention.'

Duly chided, the skinny male aimed his gaze at the ground, scuffing the stone with his heel. At the head of the crowd, Kabtaar Tziir displayed the full shield of his head, eyes flashing.

'They are waiting. They lie low in their bay, biding their time, building their strength as ours seems to wane: they do not want to fight us at full strength. They would not seek out conflict with half our warriors, nor a third, nor a quarter. They will wait until this disease has stripped us down to the last sickle. And then they will take this bay like the scavengers they are. That is why they have sent this disease against us: they are cowards and they are weak and they know no other way of defeating us, primarily because _there isn't one._'

Zetaahn raised his head at this. He was used to proclamations of the kabutops' strength, he had never questioned it, so while Tziir's words on the matter were often stirring, they never covered new ground. But the notion of blame had never come from the kabtaar before.

Two months earlier, the plague claimed its first life. He was elderly, one of the warriors too old to fight – tmiirin, and something of a hermit, living amongst the rock pools past the shiraan, well out of sight of the main bay. His passing turned no heads. But then the other elders began to die, then the kabuto, then the active warriors too. Even the shiraari fell sick. The tribe shrank to the youngest kabutops, those scarcely ready for combat at all.

Aashnin Shaaca condemned the omastar as the perpetrators, but no-one else seemed to agree. Though Zetaahn latched onto the idea as if it was his own, quite ready to follow his champion into battle when they finally marched for retribution, Kognook's sickness stopped all that. The aashnin withdrew from public affairs, and the words of a lowly raakin like him made no difference on their own. But here was the kabtaar uttering them nevertheless. Had the tribe's mind finally opened to his logic?

'Haste is crucial. We will strike before the plague takes any more of our warriors. Wasting any more time will only increase their advantage.'

Tziir paused as the gathered kabu swapped glances. Zetaahn bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming at Siira, who looked back wide-eyed and enthusiastic.

'Scouting is, as ever, necessary. The group will be small for the sake of speed. One warrior and a tactician will do.' Tziir stopped, frowning. 'What is it, Raakin Zetaahn?'

'I can do it, Kabtaar!' Zetaahn bobbed at the back, eyes wide and pleading. 'Can I go? I can fight and scout and-'

'I think not,' said Tziir. 'The omastar are vicious and often unpredictable. Until you have undergone further training, none of the raakinoi are prepared to face them. Hence I have decided to send Telniin Raahn and Aashnin Shaaca. In the meantime, I will teach you myself. And yes, that is my final decision.'

Zetaahn stepped further forward, the raakinoi separating him from the kabtaar parting to give him room.

'The aashnin won't want to go,' he argued, hurt but not yet dissuade. 'She's too busy with Riin Kognook.'

Kabtaar Tziir's head raised sharply. 'Aashnin Shaaca's potential loss does not void her obligations to this tribe. She will go, regardless of personal feelings.'

'But-'

'No.'

The meeting ended soon after. Any hope of cornering the kabtaar and making a few further pleas was thoroughly shredded by Tziir's warning look as Zetaahn approached. Head down and sulking, the raakin trailed behind him until Siira's arm darted through his. Zetaahn blinked, peering back at her. Her whole body was rock-still with excitement, blue eyes gleaming.

'This is amazing!' she blurted as soon as the last kabutops disappeared through the spray. She unhooked their interlocking arms and danced away.

Zetaahn watched her dubiously as she pirouetted across the stone floor, her blades audibly slicing through the air with each spin.

'_Not_ going on the scouting trip?' he said sullenly.

She stopped, cocking her head to the side as he turned to sharpen his ruined blades against a protruding rock.

'We're going to be taught by one of the Bladesworn! By Tziir himself. If that doesn't make me the next kabtaar, I don't know what will.'

'But I want to be a champion, not a leader,' Zetaahn grumbled, inspecting the edge of one scythe. 'I need experience. I can't believe that kabuto telniin is getting it instead.'

He flinched as Siira grabbed him from behind, her scythes crossing over his chest. She pushed her helmed head over his shoulder, thrusting his out of the way at an uncomfortable angle.

'Siira-'

'Then what we need,' she said impishly, ignoring his complaints, 'is to get you on that trip. And I've got just the plan.'

o o o

The healers flinched and scattered as Shaaca raised her gaze to glare at their kabtaar.

'I am not going,' she refused point-black, purple eyes venomous. 'I'm surprised you had the gall to ask me, Tziir.'

Her acid tone, her blatant pain stung him at the heart, but Kabtaar Tziir refused to break eye contact with the obsidian kabutops.

'You are still my aashnin, Shaaca,' he said firmly, light gleaming over the symmetrical slices in his armour her scythes had once carefully carved. 'We need your help and your presence here isn't helping Kognook in the slightest. The only way you can save him is to cut off this disease at the root.'

'And if that doesn't help him? If it only stops it from infecting more of us?' she said, sharper blade lifted threateningly.

Tziir's scythes darted up in response. His muscles tightened reflexively across his shoulders.

'_Only_ stops it from infecting more of us? _Only?_ This mission has the potential to save the entire tribe, but it's below your notice because there's a _chance_ ten of over fifty _might_ still die?'

Shaaca straightened up, her arms falling to her sides. For all the harsh glint in her eyes she looked miserable, defeated and alone; nothing like herself. Seeing her like this cooled his fury like nothing else.

'Shaaca.'

'This mission would be below my notice even if it saved every kabu bar Kognook,' she said, voice stretched thin with bitterness. 'None of you mean anything to me. You can all die before I leave his side.'

Shock forced Tziir back against a standing stone with a crack of armoured fin against rock. He stared at her in disbelief. She looked back, characteristic fierceness frozen and desperate, so potent the kabtaar could feel it himself. Or maybe that was just his own despair, brought on by the realisation that someone bright and altruistic had crumbled like this: brought low and hopeless. Slowly he realised the sight of her, bright-eyed with grief, with those words hanging between them, made him physically sick.

'I won't go on your fool's errand, Kabtaar.'

Her head didn't turn as one of the newly evolved kabutops skidded to a halt behind her, his dark eyes wide as he babbled out the newest bout of terrible news.

'I suggest you leave me alone and get on with your duty.'

Incapable of holding her gaze, Tziir willed a flimsy veneer of composure over his features. He stepped past her with what little grace he could muster and gestured to the raakin that they should talk elsewhere. The younger kabutops bounded out of the shiraan, evidentially more than happy to put distance between himself and the aashnin.

For the first time, Tziir could only agree.

o o o

_It's working!_ was all Zetaahn could think as Siira dangled from the vines of Niva, a carnivine from the neighbouring jungle.

He stood at the mouth of the meeting room tunnel and watched sheer panic spread below. The cacophony of worried shouts and claws on rock made the perfect orchestral backdrop to his imminent feats of heroism, he couldn't help but observe.

Grinning, he peered down in search of the distinguishing bulk of the kabtaar amongst the throng of the younger, smaller generation. There was no sign of Tziir. Instead, another raakin sped by Zetaahn's hiding place: Raakin Kaziir, a kabutops known to have no inhibitions about jumping into battle head first, irrespective of his opponent.

'Not good!' Zetaahn brayed, leaping from the lip of the tunnel to the beach.

Stumbling, he found his footing and raced full-tilt up the slope. The other kabutops had a head start, but Zetaahn was speed personified. He won every race, he outran every raakin, he caught every sort of prey.

And apparently he struggled when it came to hills. Panting before he reached the halfway point, he glanced up to see Siira jerk her head meaningfully toward Kaziir. For all his reputation as the fastest sprinter around, Zetaahn realised with building dread that he couldn't catch up.

'Wait, don't!' he cried to no avail, as the other raakin reached Niva and slashed out with razor-sharp blades.

Years of peaceful cohabitation meant nothing when a kabutops' scythe was forcibly involved. Rearing back, a shallow slice across her yellow underbelly spewing thick green blood, Niva hurled Siira aside. One leafy arm slammed down into Kaziir's back and he ploughed into the ground. He spluttered sand as he hissed, arching his back to force the carnivine away, but her weight thrust down against his shoulders. Her free arm caught him solidly across the face.

'Niva!' Siira roared.

The plant's huge head snapped up, twisting to face the oncoming raakin. Wide-set eyes narrowing, she let out an angry bellow and smashed Kaziir across the back with the thickest of her vines. One of his fins tore on impact. Blood arched and splattered across the sand as the trapped male let out a horrified scream.

'How could you?'

Choked with fury, Siira surged into the air, blades arching forward. Niva's enormous mouth gaped open, a salvo of seeds catching the pale raakin in the chest and buffeting her out of the air.

She sprang up into a crouch and ducked down behind her scythes so the last projectiles glanced off with splitting retorts.

'How could _you?_' snarled the carnivine, lifting her weight from Kaziir. 'You said there would be no-'

Her words split into a surprised bawl as the injured raakin leapt to his feet, hacking clear through one of her supporting vines. As Zetaahn reached the top of the slope, Kaziir caught Niva solidly in the chest with his head, only for a rain of purple sludge to burst from her jaws and splatter across his shell. The raakin's armour sizzled. Staggering back, the injured kabutops tore gaping gouges in the sweep of his helm, desperately trying to sooth the hurt with blades kept too sharp for safe contact.

In the corner of his eye, Zetaahn saw Siira stretch into the start of a run, but he was closer. As Kaziir flailed, Niva closed her jaws around his midsection, hauling him from the ground. The thorns lining her mouth bit into the raakin's sides, bending around his armoured plates and lodging in the gaps. Petrified, Zetaahn let out a desperate battle cry and leapt into the fray. Niva lashed out at him but he dodged the blow, darting close. Although fear and inexperience drove nervous bile into his throat, for the moment his mind focused only on the strike. His blade shot forward with every ounce of strength he possessed.

Before he could even process what he was doing, Zetaahn cut clear through the exposed join between Niva's head and body. He landed with a thud, tripping over his own feet. It was only when Kaziir crawled close to him, coated in acid, slime and blood, that Zetaahn realised the truth: he had killed her.

Sitting there, stunned, his mind remained a beautiful blank. He barely registered Siira as she stumbled over over to sit by his side. They stared blindly into space, Kaziir shuddering in the sand, until the kabtaar's words brought them hurtling back to the present.

'Raakin,' said Tziir, his voice unusually flat, 'it seems I have misjudged you.'

Zetaahn blinked. His eyes rolled up to the kabtaar, who stared down at him with a hard look in his eyes, and then back to the ground as his stomach began to churn. Desperately he tried to think of sand, stone, anything that wouldn't aggravate the nausea taking a firm hold of his head but-

In an attempt to avoid throwing up on his leader, the raakin rolled over and buried his head in a bush as he lost the battle over his lunch. Blood. How disgusting.


	3. Over the Edge

**PLAGUE**  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Over the Edge

'They're leaving, you know.' A pause, as though Shiraar Rinaari expected a reply, then: 'Won't you at least see them off?'

'No.'

Even Shaaca's ocean of tenacity failed to drown the tiny part of her whining for rest. Escape from Rinaari's pestering and a chance to loosen her locked joints were both compelling luxuries, and rebuking Tziir had drawn her down to new levels of utter exhaustion. Her body declined ever closer to rock bottom.

That did not mean she would submit. Just one look at Kognook's ailing body kept her motionless, only speaking when an answer was truly necessary. His clear distress when she had lain beside him coated her thoughts like black ice.

'But if they succeed they might find a way to cure him,' the young healer persisted, her instinctive fear of the aashnin long since lost.

Shaaca said nothing. The possibility sat well beyond her sphere of comprehension. A cure now would be a miracle. She had no faith in miracles.

Two sides of her clamoured bitterly nevertheless. Tziir could be right. He usually was. Perhaps she wasn't helping Kognook by staying here at all – it was her weakness and her sentiment that had distressed him earlier, after all. No shiraar would have done something so self-serving.

Any chance of a fight with the omastar was endlessly appealing to her as well, but just the thought of leaving her son crippled her. Even if her presence wasn't making him any better. Even if maybe, just maybe, the trek might bring the very results he needed.

A long sigh escaped her. Her bearing fled with it, shoulders slouching and head bowing forward, defeated.

Rinaari eyed her warily. 'Won't you sit down, Aashnin Shaaca?' she suggested.

The little kabutops gestured with an especially dull, rounded scythe to the worn remains of a boulder that lay against the base of one of the shiraan's sentinel stones.

Shaaca didn't even glance in its direction. With a non-committal murmur, she permitted herself a retreat and lowered her weight blindly onto the rock. Her scythes rested against her thighs, the left as blunt as the healer's and the other badly maintained, its once-sharp edge eroding away. Desperation swelled like a winter wave within her chest as the desire to sharpen both blades and throw herself back into her blood-stained element rose to new heights. She wished Tziir had never come to her with that tantalising escape.

Her sandy, coarse skin transformed to deep brown in the bloody morning light, Rinaari stepped forward again. The two scouts would be long gone by now, so there was no point in begging for the aashnin's attendance to the leaving ceremony, but a familiar weariness had settled into Shaaca's eyes. Seeing it there was wholly unsettling. It usually kept to the dying.

'Shaaca,' she said firmly, discarding the respectful title of aashnin for the first time, 'Please. I am a healer. You've pushed yourself past your limits, and I can see it in everything you do. Your collapse will do your son no good. Leave this instant,' she took a deep breath, raising her chin, 'or I shall remove you myself.'

The black kabutops gave a condescending snort nobody had heard out of her in days. Her angular eyes came to bear on the smaller female.

'Really?'  
>Her voice was flat yet scathing. Rinaari was sick of hearing it.<p>

She struck with a speed and precision that surprised her, although evidently not as much as it did Shaaca, who suddenly found herself on her knees. The shiraar glared down at her fiercely, blunt blades lifted threateningly.

'Really,' she repeated.

She hadn't enough time to draw another breath before Shaaca struck back as fast as lightning. She surged to her feet and slashed out with both scythes in one fluid movement. The left struck tenths of a second before the right, smacking the healer back against the wall and holding her there. Its twin shot past the terrified kabutops' head with an audible hiss. Rinaari trembled, all righteous fire lost in the face of Shaaca's thunderous appearance, a deep, thin white line sliced all the way along the left plane of her helmed head. The very skin that had picked her out as a healer – sandy, soft, unfit for combat – crumbled away from the cut.

Silver wings buzzing irritably at her back, the aashnin waited just long enough for the shiraar to regain a healthy measure of fear. Then she stepped back and let her slump to the ground.

'You will not tell me what to do,' Shaaca snapped, taking one last glance at Kognook and storing the image carefully in the back of her mind, 'Although I appreciate the attempt at humour. I will see you first thing tomorrow, understood?'

Rinaari barely had the presence of mind to nod numbly as Shaaca swept out of the shiraan with nothing but the fading whine of her wings to mark her departure. Very slowly, her cheek smarting, the healer raised her head. Her gaze trailed sluggishly over the shocked faces of her fellow shiraari.

'She left,' she said, blinking.

Even verbalised, it seemed impossible. The aashnin had stayed at her son's side for two weeks solid. Even in the midday sun she stood like a black statue, when everyone else retreated to flooded ka'aan. Heat exhaustion might have allowed the healers to remove her for a few hours before, but Rinaari had started to suspect Shaaca would never leave by choice. And now this.

She leant back against a standing stone. 'Amazing.'

Whatever fierceness she had conjured in the shiraan sloughed from Shaaca like an ill-fitting skin, leaving her soft and vulnerable. She crumpled against the wall of her cave, limbs sprawled at awkward angles. Her vast strength ran like water through her arms, legs and neck, gathering in a well of discomfort at the pit of her stomach. It left everything else hollow. Lonely thoughts plummeted down the empty fissure of her head. Her eyes roved the walls in search of words to patch the gap, and found nothing.

Both scythes itched. Shaaca raised the right, eyeing its pits and swells. Unthinkingly, she pressed the edge to the wall and lifted her arm in one weak, shaky arch. As dust and dislodged pebbles rained down around her, the aashnin closed her eyes, blocking out the empty ka'aan that gaped at her feet like an open wound.

Rinaari was right, Shaaca mused. She had no place in the shiraan, at the side of her innocent hatchling. She swept her sharpening stone from the ring around the ka'aan and settled it against the wall. Her scythe scraped over it until the edge gleamed. Emptily, the aashnin stared at the blade. Two weeks hadn't made the razor-sharp line alien. Relief surged from that heavy pool in her belly at the sight of it, only to be forced back down by the growing weight of her heart. Her body readily provided all the necessary proof: she was never meant to be a mother.

Collapsing heavily onto her side, Shaaca ducked her head against the rock floor. She wished she was years away. Perhaps then she could live without wondering if her son would be there when she opened her eyes. Perhaps then all this suffering could come to an end.

o o o

'So, I don't really get it. Why did we leave in the morning?'

Telniin Raahn the kabuto glared through the humid jungle heat-haze. Balanced on the broad head of the annoyingly bouncy Raakin Zetaahn, he struggled with the urge to release an especially concentrated blast of water into his steed's eyes. Dodging low-slung vines and protruding branches irritated him enough. He certainly did not require Zetaahn's verbal onslaught of stupidity to make this trip an utter nightmare.

'After all, it'll be noon soon. We'll have to stop or bake. I think we should have left just before sundown,' the raakin continued doggedly.

He seemed set on generating some sort of conversation. Raahn had no intention of indulging him.

'Tradition,' he ground out.

He clicked his yellow needle legs on the left side of Zetaahn's head, directing him toward a promising accumulation of knotted wood. Towering almost as tall as the kabtaar, the tangled root system sheltered a shadowy space beneath. Raahn suspected it would be the closest thing to a cave he was likely to find.

'Oh,' said Zetaahn as the kabuto dropped to the ground with an inadvertent huff. 'Why did they send you out here anyway? How old are you? Ten?'

Without a second thought, Raahn drove his front leg into the kabutops' ankle.

'For your information,' he snapped as Zetaahn squealed, 'It has been ninety seven years, six months and twelve days since I hatched. Just because I haven't evolved into one of _you_ does not mean I am your inferior. Have I made myself clear?'

Zetaahn nodded rapidly. 'Yes! I'm sorry!'

The strategist tugged his claw free, huffing. 'You will be.'

Leaving the raakin to whimper over his superficial injury, Raahn clambered over forest floor detritus. He scaled a bothersome mound of rotting leaves and pressed his shell halfway through one of the smaller gaps between roots. His red eyes gleamed in the gloom as he inspected the shelter.

The space proved positively cavernous. A sizeable boulder took most of the tree's weight. Beside it, the earth had been torn away, leaving a remarkably ka'aan-shaped dip in the ground. Roots arched overhead, wreathed with moss and studded with yellow mushrooms. Zetaahn would fit inside without any problems, pressed up against the woody fence. That would leave Raahn with a good six shells' length worth of spreading space in every direction. It was much more than he had expected. A few quick clicks with his talons communicated as much to Zetaahn.

The raakin hesitated for a second, glancing between the impatient kabuto and the shelter, before it sank in that he was here as a guard. Of course he had to enter first. Scuttling forward, he ducked easily through the largest hole and peered around. Inside, the air was moist and heavy with the scent of rotten leaves, soil and faeces, but Zetaahn saw nothing particularly dangerous. No tentacruel, no brightly-coloured fish, nothing potentially poisonous at all. He nodded humbly to his elder, allowing him inside.

Raahn made a quick circle of the interior before coming to stop a scythe's length from a sizeable pile of dung. He eyed it suspiciously. Though calculating and intelligent in theory and strategy, he knew full well his shortcomings when it came to experience.

'Old, is it?' he inquired airily, gesturing in the heap's direction without wanting to move any closer.

Zetaahn barely glanced in its direction. 'Of course,' he said brightly, hoping to redeem himself by being the closest to quick and efficient he could manage. It involved a lot of quick and not much efficient.

Skittering to the furthest corner, Raahn settled down, eyeing Zetaahn from beneath the rim of his shell.

'If you're sure,' he relented.

Proud that he had satisfied the temperamental little telniin, Zetaahn lay down on his side. Heat lodged between his armoured plates, leaving him sticky and uncomfortable. Rolling onto his back, he tried to bury his fins in the cool earth, to little effect. He recalled a calming exercise Siira passed onto him after he missed a lesson with one of the strongest warriors, the djirnoi. The raakinoi were supposed to will serenity through their limbs between fights. They had to purposefully loosen their muscles: let their joints relax until they slumped within their armour.

It didn't work. Now that he'd thought of her, Zetaahn found himself focusing on Siira. Specifically, where Siira was probably sleeping: in her own smooth ka'aan halfway up the cliff side, filled to the top with water and covered with leaves.

His eyes slid shut as he remembered the cool press of liquid all around him in his own ka'aan. Fern fronds let slats of midday glow filter down against his eyelids, while silt swirled over his body with each absent-minded swish of his sickles. He twitched slightly as some phantom movement registered beyond his consciousness, but Zetaahn was long gone. His shielded helm fell slack against the ground as he slipped down into sleep.

o o o

A twisting sensation deep in her stomach woke Shaaca, drilling into her dreams and dragging her to the surface. She blinked in the dulling light of late afternoon, staring blankly at the sloping ceiling overhead before moving slowly to her feet.

A few hours' decent sleep returned a measure of her usual strength to her legs as she made her way to the shiraan. Instinct guided her toward the narrow path around the cliff face. Her wings fluttered at her back, unsure whether to utter their signature whine or fall still altogether. With sweat seeping between the gaps in her armour, her breath coming harsh and flustered, Shaaca lacked the presence of mind to direct them one way or the other.

Urgency struck. She broke into a run, racing nimbly over the sea-slicked path. Her wings shrieked by the time she reached the one gap in the standing stones, but as Shaaca's gaze swept the silent shiraan they fell against her back. The shiraari were gone, every last one.

Shaaca froze in shock. Dread ate up her insides, reaching for her sluggish heart. She started forward, as indecisive as her wings. Two quick steps, a hesitant shuffle. A pause as she glanced, unseeing, down at an acid-burnt raakin. Then a surge, darting forward to her son's ka'aan as though she might catch relief with one well-timed burst of speed.

Kognook lay motionless. His needle legs hung limply from his overturned shell, furrows in the damp sand writing out their frenzied death-spasms. No warm red glow issued from the dark pits of his eyes.

Shaaca felt not even the faintest tingle of surprise.

But her body locked up. Bent over the lifeless shape of her son, she couldn't lean closer. She couldn't turn away. Her throat seized as though grasping at some last-minute miracle. The one she had never believed in.

She had expected this, she desperately reminded herself. She had known. Everyone touched by the disease withered; they slipped away so quickly; she never should have hoped. She should have prepared.

'I came as soon as I heard.'

A voice, deep and sombre. Fire surged through her at the sound.

Tziir watched his aashnin shiver, a myriad of words brooding behind his tongue. The missing medics cowered behind him, silent.

'Shaaca,' said the kabtaar, 'if there's anything I can do-'

The black kabutops spun suddenly to face him, her violet eyes gleaming passionately.

'When did they leave?' she demanded, the tremble in her blades accentuated by the way one flashed dangerously with each shake.

Tziir blinked, caught off-guard. 'How do you mean?' he asked stupidly, cursing himself for it.

'The group,' she snapped. 'When did they leave.'

'At dawn,' he said, peering at her with a growing sense of understanding. 'Aashnin, I ask nothing of you, only that you let me help-'

Shaaca didn't hear his words. They were inconsequential. With an agonising burst from her wings she launched herself over the standing stones, crashing onto the rocks on the other side, and began to run. Up the beach, up the cliffs, up into the jungle. She knew who had done this, she knew it beyond any shadow of doubt, and there was only one thing to do with omastar. The aashnin bared her blades.


	4. Stepping Stones and First Blood

**PLAGUE**  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Stepping Stones and First Blood

He feared for her.

In the wider scheme of things, Tziir knew he ought to be glad. He had to focus on the tribe. He needed to remember that Shaaca's participation boosted the scouting party's chances of success to a near-certainty. If she lead the way into battle, their fighting force could well be the one to crush the omastar for good. The plague might stop altogether. That possibility had to take precedence over everything else.

But kabutops possessed extensive memories, strong to suit their long lives. Regardless of the kabtaar's wishes, Tziir's harked back to a time when silver wings and black armour marked a freak, not a war heroine. His mind's eye recalled with crippling clarity the way an imploring violet gaze once regarded him, awkwardly requesting the comfort and protection no-one else cared to give.

It was a ridiculous thing to dwell on. Shaaca no longer required that sort of assistance. Her physical strength had grown to exceed his nearly a century ago and she easily matched him tactically as well. Two weeks spent inactive would not have changed that. His general would crush anything that opposed her.

Yet the raw emotion she had shown played out a bloody tragedy in his mind. He saw fearlessness and recklessness and death. Her words echoed through him all over again. _None of you mean anything to me. You can all die before I leave his side._ Potent proof that some part of her had shattered. Some part had bent past breaking point and left her not herself. He couldn't trust Shaaca to withdraw as he had asked. She might challenge the whole oma tribe on her own. She might die.

Tziir stepped back from his personal grinding stone, raising his gleaming scythes to scrutinise the lethal edge. Razor sharp, there was nothing to criticise in either, save for their inactivity. Wielded at Shaaca's side, they would be perfect.

He lowered both with a muted hiss and forced all regrets about the constraints of his position aside. All thoughts of his aashnin disappeared along with them. Stepping out into the sun, he looked down the beach to the decimated ranks of his tribe going about their business. Tziir raised his head and willed away the worried wrinkles around his eyes. It was time to head out and serve.

o o o

Raahn's red eyes gleamed in the darkness of his shelter, line of sight obscured by the boulder supporting the enormous tree overhead. A drooping net of moss did nothing to improve the situation. He cursed inwardly, lifting onto the tips of his claws in the vague hope it might improve visibility. No such luck.

'Perfect,' he said dryly, glancing in Zetaahn's direction.

Initially, the sight of his so-called bodyguard sprawled on his back, cheek pressed into the pile of dung, had amused the telniin. A moment of realisation fixed all that. Old faeces would be solid. It wouldn't smear quite so satisfyingly up a childish kabutops' cheek.

More worryingly, something was definitely prowling outside. Past the boulder, undergrowth snapped and swished. It moved slowly: ponderously, the strategist decided. Not an intelligent enemy because it lived on land, but certainly large. He squinted again through the veil of moss. Nothing. Irksome.

With a huff, the kabuto skittered over to Zetaahn, climbing onto his chest and tapping repeatedly on the raakin's armour.

'Wake up!' he hissed. 'Wake up, you lazy chump.'

The kabutops stirred, staring dreamily at the blurry rock perched on his chest until his third lid drew back and the tetchy telniin came into focus.

'Raahn?' he mumbled vaguely, an attempt to sit up halted rapidly when his head made an ugly sucking sound.

The kabuto couldn't help the amused glint in his eyes at the horrified look gripping his companion's face.

'That's _Telniin_ Raahn, thank you,' he said snidely. 'Now get up. There's something outside and we need to deal with it.'

The younger kabu curled into a crouch with a grimace, shuddering from helm to tail.

'But I'm,' he started.

'Completely and utterly disgusting, yes,' Raahn finished, creeping close to the widest gap in the roots. 'I really don't care. It's on the left,' he said, sweeping out one talon and glancing back at Zetaahn to ascertain he was paying attention, 'and undoubtedly expects us to come out _here_, so you're going to use those scythes of yours and go straight up through the-'

'Telniin!' Zetaahn lurched forward, his face so close to Raahn that it silenced him altogether with his own gag reflex. The raakin lowered his voice to a whisper. 'If it's that close it can probably hear you.'

The kabuto scurried away from the stink, snorting. 'It's a land creature. They're stupid.' Before the hurt look flitting across Zetaahn's features could manifest fully as spoken stupidity he added quickly, 'You're _amphibious._ Now get out there!'

The raakin leapt up, shuddering as the worst of the mess slid off his face. Outside, something gave a rumbling yawn. He swallowed at the sound, wondering how enormous it would have to be to make a noise like that. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out his imagination's hulking conclusion. Best just to go. Stopping to consider things only made them worse.

On his first jump, Zetaahn's scythes hacked straight through the roots overhead, his helm breaking through the remaining splinters. His second leap sent him up through the gap. He slammed down both arms on either side, talons scrabbling for purchase on the boulder below as he hauled himself up. The jungle greeted his precursory glance around. Vibrant flowers, shiny green foliage, dappled sunlight and- oh.

Zetaahn stared straight into a heavy-lidded eye, boggling at the sheer width of the enormous head behind it.

'Slaaaaak,' it rumbled.

The sight of its yellow fangs snapped him back to his senses. Off-balance on the knotted roots, he slashed out hard. His scythe caught the monster across its massive shoulder, shearing a bloody gash through its matted brown pelt. It retaliated instantly, a clumsy punch crashing down onto the spot the nimble kabutops had occupied not a split-second before. An explosion of splinters clipped Zetaahn's heels as he lurched through the air, skidding to a halt as soon as he hit solid ground. The slaking's second arm slammed down right in front of him, then swiped for his legs.

The raakin dodged away smartly, darting toward its exposed belly as his enemy struggled to free its right arm from the tangled roots. It jerked before Zetaahn's blades even touched it, wrenching its bloodied fist up into the air with a growl that flexed into an agonised bellow as the kabutops' sickles dug into its rubbery flesh.

'Hah! As you deserve!' Zetaahn heard Raahn's victorious voice exclaim from within their makeshift shelter.

Drawing back his blades, he moved to strike again, but the monster swiped at him as though it hadn't been hurt at all. The pure muscle beneath its matted fur heaved the raakin off his feet and into the air, flailing as he collided with a nearby tree. The knuckle of his right scythe caught in the crux of two thick branches, nearly tearing the arm from its socket as Zetaahn's full bodyweight came crashing down. He howled, tumbling to the ground with a sickly crunch. Sprawled on his back, he writhed, desperately seeking some elusive position that might soothe the wretched joint. Raahn's warning shout went unheard.

Reliably, it all came down to the power of the kabuto, the strategist mused. He had seen clearly the flex of massive muscles beneath the creature's flabby chest. Zetaaahn really should have too. Their enemy might be misleadingly fat and short-legged, but it was fast and bloody strong. Laziness could only hinder that amount of power so much.

But it really was damned lazy. Even now it took its sweet time as it lumbered towards the injured kabutops, almost as though it couldn't quite raise the motivation to finish him off. Raahn narrowed his eyes as he darted forward. He could exploit that.

Water shot from his reserves, spraying Slaking in the side of the head. It whipped around with uncanny speed, nostrils flared wide in its pug nose. Its white ruff dripped. A low rumble built in its chest as it advanced on Raahn, leaving his larger counterpart for later.

'Yes, hello there!' he shouted, undaunted. He backed off quickly, waving one front leg with each insult. 'You're a frightfully ugly piece of work. A face like that makes even a tentacool look attractive.'

The back of his shell bumped against a vertical root, and his legs skittered on one side to turn him quickly around the obstruction and into the wooden shelter.

'Comparatively, of course,' he continued, sidling up to the boulder. 'Tentacool did, after all, hold the unfortunate title of ugliest being alive, until you came along.'

Its tawny face lowered to the ground near the entrance, blocky jaw skimming the dust. On all fours, its enormous shoulders just fit through the gap. Although he tried to smother it, the telniin felt the first prickle of excitement.

'I dare say you killed your mother outright, when she looked in your egg and saw what a malformed monstrosity she'd birthed!'

With a roar, the beast lurched forward. Raahn jumped in fright, nearly overturning himself, and managed to hook one needle leg into the moss adorning the boulder. Glancing back when he didn't seem to be dead, he saw Slaking force its shoulder through the roots. It balled its fist.

'By the bloody Bladesworn,' he cursed, struggling up the rock, 'Hidden truths!'

The punch missed him by a breath, and only because fear considerably improved the kabuto's climbing prowess. Slumping onto the top of the boulder, the base of the tree pressing against his back, Raahn pushed himself up onto his claws. He turned, looking down at the furious slaking.

'You happen to be preposterously poor at fighting, too,' he snipped, then turned sharply and forced himself through the one tiny gap between tree and stone.

As predicted, the beast slammed against the solid wood behind him, bellowing fury. Rather unexpectedly, it burst straight through.

Raahn plummeted from his perch, glancing off the twisted roots before slamming into the ground on his side. Above, Slaking's enormous head forced its way back into the sunlight, splinters raining from its bulging shoulders. With a crackling, splitting moan, the tree collapsed against its neighbour, taking a whole system of vines with it. The evening sky blazed through the gap that opened in the canopy.

Slaking clambered out of the ruined shelter, the boulder shifting beneath its weight. Its head turned downward and its heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Raahn. He stared.

'Improbable,' he spluttered.

His first implemented strategy in nearly a decade, thwarted by brute strength? It was utterly humiliating, but he had little time to dwell on it. The next lance of water, aimed at the beast's snout, was his last and, water reserves emptied, he raised his needle legs towards his notably uninjured foe. Could he leach from a creature with that much fat? Hard to tell. Bloody annoying. Worth trying?

'Slaaaaakiiiing!'

The giant sloth had barely raised its fist to crush the dithering kabuto when it was hit from the side. Twin sickles sliced into its belly and flank, forced deeper by a tenacious attacker. Zetaahn clung to its ragged pelt, hissing through the pain in his arm. As Slaking struggled to shake him off, he brought the talons on his feet to bear.

'Hah,Raakin, that's better!' cried Raahn, apparently undaunted by his brush with compaction.  
>Skittering forward, he launched himself at the slaking's leg and dug in his tiny claws. His aim wasn't especially true: one blade hit bone whilst the other barely forced through the thick layer of fat. Nevertheless it elicited another angry bellow from the beast. Raging, it ploughed into a tree, the trunk shattering on impact and sending shards of sharp white wood clattering off the two kabus' armour.<p>

The tree went down and Slaking stumbled over with it, crashing to the ground and half-crushing Zetaahn with its weight. He gave a pained squeal, one scythe coming loose, and with the next thrash of his furious host he tumbled from its side, skidding a few metres before coming to a halt near the entrance to the shelter. His warrior instincts cut in quickly this time, however, and he sat up almost immediately, ready to gain his feet.

Warrior instincts, after all, could hardly anticipate the hurtling projectile of shell and angry mind that shot through the air towards him. Warrior instincts had no idea that sitting up would put him directly in the path of that projectile, or that it would hit his head so hard his armoured helm would crack upon impact.

Unfortunately, this proved to be a major failing for warrior instincts. Caught just above the eye by Raahn as the kabuto hurtled through the air, Zetaahn dropped straight back into the dirt, reeling from the hit. His thoughts sprawled, disjointed, stupid. Instead of focusing on the advancing foe he found himself staring in dazed disbelief at Raahn, watching with dumb curiosity the way the little yellow legs twitched in waves. The telniin's litany of furious insults washed through his mind without a trace of any sense whatsoever. The world distorted wildly. A piercing shriek tore through the air and thunder thudded through the ground.

Slaking's thunder.

He had to stand.

Rolling onto his back, he stared upward just in time to see the monstrous creature towering over him, bleeding and angry. Then it stumbled forward; it tried to turn but it was late, far too late to stop anything. Blood gushed, spurting in gory fans from its throat.

Zetaahn's stomach did a tell tale flip even as his field of vision narrowed. This wasn't getting any easier.

o o o

Sand rained down across the beach as the raakinoi duelled furiously in pairs. Scythes clashed and talons struggled for grip in the shifting ground. Someone slipped and fell to one knee toward the middle of the group; their partner missed running them through with a last-second twist to the side. His hip caught on her shoulder and he sprawled face-first through the air.

But nobody stopped. Around them, the others shakily deflected badly-aimed blows before riposting with their own. They ducked and tripped, the air buzzing with ecstatic laughs and nervous giggles.

Toward the end of the column, Siira fought against a slightly younger opponent, positively gleeful. She feinted back and scissored both scythes forward, far too focused on the raakinoi's mutual aim of impressing the kabtaar to realise how lucky they were that no one was seriously hurt. In their quest for Tziir's approval, general ignorance had led the group to opt for sheer speed. Had any one of them glanced up and noticed the furious expression of their tutor as he stormed back across the sand after a brief, hushed conversation with one of the shiraari, they might have recognised their own mistake.

Instead, Siira's blue eyes gleamed with excitement as she caught sight of an opening in her peer's defence. Darting forward, she swiped the flat of her blade hard into the other raakin's chin. He staggered back, flailing, and with a victorious shove she pushed him over on his side.

Then her heel slipped. With a surprised yelp, she tried desperately to pull back, only for the ground to part beneath her. The dune gave way in a torrent of loose sand, gushing down the sheer drop the sandbank had hidden. Clawing desperately for purchase, Siira reached for her partner's outstretched elbow and missed. She plummeted backward.

Something hit her from the side mid-air. On pure, terrified instinct, she latched onto it with every available limb, and a pair of powerful arms responded by clasping her to a plated chest. They hit the ground with a winded grunt from each, but nothing broken.

She recognised the timbre of that minute sound, though. It named her dignity the casualty. Death by grovelling.

Scrambling to her feet before her ungainly position sprawled across the chest of the kabtaar turned her into a gibbering wreck, she spun to face him and proceeded to prove that she was much too late.

'Tziir!' she cried, then yelped and waved her scythes wildly as though to slice her misdemeanour out of the air. 'I mean- Sir! Lord! Mister Kabtaar Tziir sir! I didn't really mean- I mean, that wasn't what I meant to-'

Standing slowly, white sand cascading over his mahogany brown shell, Sir Lord Mister Kabtaar Tziir lowered his head slightly to blow a few stray grains from the ornamental cuts in his shoulder plates and silver chest armour.

'Raakin,' he warned, his deep voice lowered even further than usual, 'Be silent.'

'Yessir!' she exclaimed, standing sharply to attention.

The others lined up along the top of the dune, watching intently. She would never hear the end of this.

Then again, they might not either. Raising the sweeping shield of his head, their leader and tutor raised his voice until his words practically boomed off the surrounding cliffs, each stressed syllable eliciting a collective wince from the raakinoi.

'Contrary to what is apparently common belief,' he roared, blue eyes flashing, 'You are here for practice sparring, not to display your communal ignorance! At what point have I ever so much as_ insinuated_ that throwing yourselves about at top speed in an area where footing is poor is _anything _other than straightforward suicide?'

The smaller kabutops cowered back, their eyes aimed anywhere but their livid kabtaar.

Swiping the air with an audible slice, Tziir continued, 'If any of you had listened for even a fleeting second you would no doubt be chanting 'never' by now – as you are not I can only deduce that you are either deaf or stupid! Which of those is the truth is of little consequence. If you continue to ignore my advice and waste time lurching about like brainless idiots rather than the precise, intelligent warriors you should be you will _die_, and this is not a threat, this is not a suggestion that I shall come after you personally, it is a _fact_! You are the fighting force of this tribe now! And as long as you blunder about displaying to the world your lack of common sense, discipline and _respect for my time,_ you will be jeopardising your lives and those of all the others who are depending on you! And I assure you, where the omastar are involved even the slightest crack in one's performance can have catastrophic results… I wonder what they could do with the_ bloody great__gaping chasms_ in yours!'

He stopped, sides heaving, and cast his burning gaze about the shamefaced crowd. The sight of them all cowering away, scythes crossed clumsily and eyes squeezed shut, only made him angrier. Where were his delfiiri and djirnoi, the proven warriors and warrior elite? Kabutops he could rely on, kabutops who knew that if he was shouting it was for a good reason, and that they should stand and listen and learn. All taken, all stolen away by that blade-cursed plague. And what was he left with? This rabble. This quivering, spineless mass of immature, ill prepared youngsters. They weren't ready to fight off half a dozen lileep, let alone a force of omastar. His whole being yearned with unfamiliar malice to take them all on, just to see if there was anything left when he was done.

'Most revered kabtaar,' a young voice said carefully, and Tziir traced the source to the female he had caught.

She was slim, lightly built like all of this newer generation, with armour so pale as to verge on sandy gold. Obviously the fall had shocked her, as he could see the slight tremor in the smooth, sweeping curve of her blades, but her blue eyes held his gaze, more or less, and she appeared to have gained control of her blathering tongue.

'Yes?' he replied, hissing slightly despite himself.

'I… apologise on behalf of us all,' she continued, mumbling a little and lowering her head a fraction more. 'We only wanted to impress you because we know you're so strong and we want to be as powerful as possible to help you. We were trying our best.'

There was something about that apologetic, nervous tone and the pleading look in her eyes that drew his earlier brooding right back into Tziir's mind, despite the fact that she was pale and delicate, the precise opposite of the last truly important person to peer at him in that imploring manner. He closed his eyes, trying to stop the frustration from building even further.

'Kabtaar Tziir?' Siira inquired, leaning forward slightly in concern.

The kabtaar's eyes snapped open and she started back.

'Then your best, Raakin, is sadly pathetic,' he snarled venomously, glaring up at the cluster atop the dune. 'Work harder and achieve something worthwhile before you so much as speak to me again! I will not accept this laxity!' he bellowed, then turned furiously on his heel and stalked off across the beach before anyone could so much as splutter.

Stunned, Siira stood and watched him go, blinking in disbelief.

'We weren't that bad, were we…?' inquired the first of the others to reach her, having taken the long route down the massive dune.

She shook her head slowly, unable to jerk her gaze from the retreating kabtaaruntil he finally reached the line of the cliff, glanced over his shoulder once and made the brief climb to his cave, disappearing inside.

'I didn't think so either!'

'Nor me!'

'Me neither…'

Around her, the growing group of raakinoi chatted animatedly, each claiming that he or she had been really impressive whilst a few wondered why the firm, fairkabtaar was suddenly so mean. Maybe, one theorised, he had noticed that the raakinoi were smaller and defter, and hence he was jealous. Another, a coppery female, rejected this instantly on the grounds that Tziir was far too handsome to be jealous of all the wimpy little male raakinoi.

Dazed, Siira moved out of the way with the rest as the two fell into a brief tussle over the matter, but her mind lurked elsewhere, far out of its usual depth.

Unlike Zetaahn, who had always been caught up in his ambition to become the next helniin, Shaaca's equivalent, her interest lay in legends and kabtaarin. Whenever a Bladesworn tale was being told, Siira would be there, hanging onto the speaker's every word. As a result of this dedication to his earlier exploits, she once felt she knew Tziir as though he were a close friend. She'd almost hoped he'd look at her and know it. But he'd only shouted. He wasn't anything like the tales made him out to be. He didn't even match the simple image of a fair kabtaar_._ She felt betrayed.

Heroes shouldn't change.

o o o

Heat and blood and nausea. A lumpy horizon of dirt and twigs obscured half of Raakin Zetaahn's vision every time he found the strength to open his eyes. But he still saw the demon. It towered overhead, tugging brusquely on his limbs, forcing back his head and blasting water across his brow. He choked on bile. Fighting the monster off was impossible: his scythes lolled, disconnected from his brain, whenever he tried to raise them. He couldn't even turn his head as its silver talons dug into the ground beside him.

Then he was airborne, floating, jerking painfully from the ground. His head knocked against something rock-solid with each step. Impossible to count the strides. When they stopped, he would be lost. He had no hope at all.

But then the ground was beneath him: a soft, shallow pit in the earth, shaded by leaves like a ka'aan at midday. Sweet blood dripped into his mouth. He spluttered on the first few drops, but food, he had never felt this grateful for food, let alone simple liquid. He lapped up the rest with stomach-twisting vigour and bleated shamelessly for more as though he were a kabuto again, begging sustenance from his parents.

The demon withdrew sharply at the sound, leaving him helpless and alone on the ground, choking again. Something sharp jabbed at his side, muttering and hissing. Zetaahn pressed his face further into the dirt and let dizziness steal him away.

Raahn clicked his claws irritably as Zetaahn slumped further over in a dead faint, scythes stretched out over the edges of the makeshift ka'aan they had placed him in. The crack in the raakin's helmed head oozed sluggishly

'Why is it taking him so long to get over it, Aashnin?' he inquired of his companion, glowering.

Standing a few strides away, the black kabutops stared down impassively at the massive mound of fur and fat that was her kill. The worst of the blood was gone from her scythes but vague stains could still be made out against the silver. Raahn couldn't quite suppress the thrill that ran through him at the sight. That monstrosity had brought both him and Zetaahn to their knees, but she had killed it so quickly Raahn doubted it had seen her at all. Straight into its back, snapping ribs, then somehow getting her scythes far enough around its colossal trunk of a neck to slit its throat: the attack had been perfectly executed. Clearly Shaaca's skills had only grown since he had last seen her fight.

She didn't seem all that attentive, though. It was only after he had repeated the question three times that she gave any indication that she had heard. Even then it was only a slight lowering of her head, violet eyes slowly shifting over to him and staring vacantly.

She spoke in monotone. 'It was a heavy hit.'

'But I endured the same and I'm fine,' retorted the kabuto. 'He can't be that weak, can he?'

Shaaca's gaze wandered over to the makeshift ka'aan, growing even more distant as she stared at the smooth dip in the earth.

'Aashnin, ' Raahn prompted, scowling.

This was what he hated about kabutops: they were so arrogant. Getting their attention, let alone their respect, was nigh impossible for a kabuto, and the lumbering creatures seemed to feel entitled to ignore them at will. Even blood ties didn't seem enough to keep a kabutops close to a kabuto for long, he noted snidely, seeing as Shaaca had abandoned her ailing son to come out here. Self-centred creature, what did he care for talent if she wouldn't even listen?

'Stay here,' Shaaca ordered abruptly, cutting into his internal tirade. 'Watch him.'

She didn't wait for his inevitable objection, turning and racing away into the undergrowth. Glowering, Raahn shuffled over to Zetaahn and set himself down next to the raakin's domed head.

'Just as useless as each other,' he grumbled.

Beside him, Zetaahn shifted and whimpered in troubled sleep.


	5. Jakinzaa's Bladesworn

This is the last of the old chapters. After this, it's all new content and the odd scene I've salvaged from my old notes and plans. Readers, I am excite. Although you are all silent enough I am only, hm, ten percent convinced I'm not talking to myself right now. :p

* * *

><p><strong>PLAGUE<strong>  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Jakinzaa's Bladesworn

Siira wasn't really sure why she'd come. Maybe jealousy, after contemplation had led eventually to the fact that Zetaahn was out enjoying a journey that would no doubt result in his promotion whilst any chance of her own had just suffered such a heavy blow, but while that made a logical explanation she couldn't actually feel it. She just felt tired and disappointed. It was habit to come here when she felt like that.

Already the rich forest air was soothing her, as was the huge animal skin she reclined on, sprawled on her belly with her scythes buried in the thick fur. With rock on one side and a matted canopy of vines shielding her from the sky she felt safe, and the elderly, husky voice of Jakinzaa warmed her somehow. The old kabutops had already heard out her woes concerning Tziir and, while she had laughed as Siira explained to her the conclusion that Tziir wasn't a proper hero as heroes were constants, she had been the picture of great-grandmotherly concern while the incident was being related. The raakin's hope of a proper solution had been dissolved fairly quickly, though: Jakinzaa's only comment was that Tziir would no doubt prove her right or wrong in time. She'd said something about the plague too, but Siira had already been too annoyed to listen.

Annoyance never lasted long here, though. Jakinzaa's scythes bore sacramental cuts, marks that showed her acceptance that she was beyond her prime and no longer of use for combat, and she tended to wave them through the air as she spoke, producing a soothing hum. Lengths of hollow wood hung from braids of seaweed threaded through slices in her cracked carapace, clacking together as she moved to rearrange a few dry leaves around her ancient claws. Closing her eyes, the younger kabutops began to drift in and out of sleep. When her mentor began to speak, she was too calm and subdued to stop her, even when she realised Jakinzaa was continuing the Bladesworn tale she'd heard half of last time. When she let herself, she realised she liked the idea of hearing more about the real Tziir, instead of the impostor she'd encountered earlier.

'They ran like the wind! Darting over roots, rocks and rubble; leaping across chasms; and slicing just about anything that got in their way, through the wilderness they raced, three deadly arrows, the Bladesworn, pride of the greatest tribe of Kabutops! Delfiir Shaaca took the lead, silver scythes slicing through vines and branches and DelfiirHaakmin was not far behind her, his green eyes, swifter and sharper than those of any other, darting about in search of danger. DjirnaarTziir followed a few paces behind and with his great shielded head lowered he looked dark and powerful and stern…'

_ 'They'll be heading for the altar!' he shouted forward to Shaaca, the red light from the setting sun glinting off his mahogany armour and gilding his silver chest plates. 'The path there is narrow; if we can gain the ground overhead we can crush them from above!'_

_ 'But to get onto the cliff!' cried Haakmin, looking back to his friend. 'It's too high, too steep, we'll never scale it!'_

_ A high pitched whine pierced the air, accompanied by Shaaca's wild laugh, 'Leave that to me, my friends, just wait and you'll see!'_

_ Incredibly speedy as they were, the three reached their destination in a fraction of the time it would take the slow, hideous omastar. Here, so far from the path, the grass was punctuated by thick spars of grey rock lancing skyward and as these grew more frequent the further up the incline the three progressed, they soon took to leaping artfully from one to the next, leaving deep scars in the stone from their powerful claws._

_ 'Hah! This is play, not war!' cried Haakmin, landing atop a towering protrusion and balancing precariously there, 'There is no effort in it!'_

_ Tziir, ever focused and dedicated, called back to him, 'You think that only because you lack foresight – it is easy here and so there is no effort, but further up, there! There it will become a challenge, and you will think yourself fool for dancing so on the rocks!'_

_ Shaaca halted nearby the mighty__Djirnaar and said to him, 'You are too severe – we have little to fear that would be made worse by fleeting jest. Might you not quarrel?'_

_ Haakmin leapt from the rock at this; he landed beside the obsidian creature, so close that their shoulders brushed and scythes hung in close parallel._

_ 'I am sure there was no anger in the words, Shaaca,' he assured her, 'Tziir wants the work done fast and so it shall be done, before the omastar can fulfil their wicked design with the kabuto.'_

_ The biggest of the three nodded at this, and his mind was clearly full of concern for the people they had left behind at the bay and the young stolen away by the monstrous shelled beasts. Both friends felt urged to console him, but they knew well that no words could soothe Tziir's mind, only action. And so they proceeded up the treacherous hill, Haakmin watching behind them for sign of the omastar, for now they were so high that he could see through the tops of the trees to the path the foe was undoubtedly following._

_ 'And here it becomes impossible, or seems thus at first judgement,' said Tziir._

_ They had reached a sheer wall of slate, towering the height of four kabutops and seeming even higher where they were, standing at the base gazing upwards. The djirnaar turned to the stronger of his two delfiir, whose wings trembled at her back. Her eyes were bright and clear, body taut with anticipation._

_ 'Your plan, Shaaca?' he inquired._

_ She spread her four wings as far as they would go, each gleaming silver._

_ 'You help me to fly.'_

'But wait… Aashnin Shaaca can't fly,' Siira interrupted, sitting up abruptly.

The elder's eyes crinkled genially. 'And she couldn't then, either, even though she was younger and smaller at the time. Both Tziir and Haakmin knew it, too, and said so, but what other option was there? Even Haakmin, wild spirit though he was, was as reserved as sensible Tziir at the thought of putting his precious Shaaca in danger and it took a great deal of convincing to make them give in, but she was persistent. Finally they moved back from the cliff and hefted her onto their shoulders, a shaky pyramid of kabutops, then charged…'

_ She waited until the last second and then leapt from their shoulders with all the force she could muster, powering her wings as hard as possible. And for a second it was like she flew; the two males, staggering to a halt, looked up and were immediately awed at the sleek black shape soaring overhead so effortlessly. But it was not effortless, not at all: Shaaca struggled to maintain lift, she was in pain to the point of nausea and the urge to cry out was building. Yet the cliff face loomed close, and reaching out her blades she touched the surface just before her wings gave way._

_ 'Shaaca!'_

_ The cry from below was unanimous – both Haakmin and Tziir lurched forward as though they could somehow help her from the ground, but she was far out of reach, struggling on the edge of the cliff, her talons digging into the rock in search of traction but instead simply kicking out fragments of stone. Her scythes were buried deep at the top but she could not pull herself up; her arms lacked the strength._

_ 'Will she die?' asked Haakmin, his voice quiet and trembling abnormally, 'If she falls?'_

_ 'No,' growled Tziir, shouldering past him and reaching up with his scythes, hunting for a soft spot that he might cut into and use to help him climb, 'Because we won't let her fall.'_

_ 'Climbing is impossible!' cried the other, glancing up to Shaaca, still fighting for grip, 'If her talons won't dig in, why should yours?'_

_ 'Because I am not panicking,' came the forced, steady reply of the wise elite._

_ Finding a place to dig in his blades, the djirnaar began to climb. Like Shaaca, he could not support himself with scythes alone, but he sought carefully for footing and managed to dig in the talons on his feet. Bewildered, Haakmin watched his friend begin to ascend. Progress was slow, but he was rising and Haakmin strove to do the same. His scythes were not sharp enough, however, and his claws not as hard and strong as those of the two born warriors, and he could not even get both feet off the ground._

_ So he stood and watched, the most adventurous rendered spectator._

_ 'Hold on!' he cried to Shaaca but his voice was drowned out by the metallic shriek of her wings finally finding the strength to flap once again._

_ Feeling that little bit of lift as her wings beat the air, the warrior hauled herself upwards and with a triumphant hiss stumbled up onto the top of the cliff. Tziir and Haakmin's joy was short lived, however, for her victory against gravity turned into nothing but a stalling manoeuvre: her scythes had dug so deep that they had hewn a great crack inside the cliff, and as she stood tall her weight pushed too hard, and the face of the cliff shuddered and began to fall. Shaaca leapt forward from her precarious place, the ground where she had stood collapsing and tumbling away behind her, but Tziir could not move so swiftly for his scythes and talons were pushed into the stone. He barely had time to utter a cry before the rubble hurled him down, crashing against the ground below. For a split second his gaze met Haakmin's, the delfiir staring in frozen disbelief, and then the debris covered him completely, crushing him into the earth._

_ Shaaca was quick to bound down, for the fallen rock had made a slope from the top to the bottom, and she landed beside Haakmin, the two of them calling in vain to their friend and attempting to push away the rocks. They could not lift a thing, however, for the stone was heavy and their scythes curved alarmingly when they tried to lever rubble aside. Keening in horror and disbelief, the two huddled together in mourning over the death of the djirnaar._

_ 'We must keep moving,' said Haakmin at length, the traits of a hero enshrouding him as he released Shaaca from his grasp, 'He would only chide us for not being focused, would he not?'_

_ Shaaca nodded her head, though grief and regret gripped her heart harder than it could that of the hero, for she knew Tziir better than anyone and it had been her plan that had killed him. The two remaining Bladesworn paused now only to make a cut through Haakmin's sandy armour and drip an offering of blood onto where they thought the body was, then they advanced up the pile of rocks and gained the top, where they again began to run._

'They just left him…?' Siira asked, horrified, 'But he was still alive!'

Jakinzaa laughed, the withered skin visible through the joints in her armour cracking and shaking weirdly. Siira tried not to look at it. Such blatant signs of age unnerved her.

'Unlike you, who have seen thekabtaar striding about quite alive,' the elder explained when she had calmed enough to speak, 'The duo had no way of knowing that their friend Tziir lived on. If your friend Zetaahn was crushed and covered would you think he was not dead?'

Siira raised her head, sky blue eyes narrowing, 'I would have at least searched more than they did. Tziir was worth a lot more than both of them, and he was Shaaca's best friend too!'

The older Kabutops was already crossing and uncrossing her scythes, disagreeing. 'Sweeping statements, Raakin! Did Shaaca not go on to prove herself to be stronger than our grand kabtaar and become Aashnin? Was Haakmin not the one she chose as mate? And do you think Tziir himself would have approved of the two abandoning their mission to try and dig him from the rubble, when he could very well have been but a corpse?'

'I- Well…' Siira trailed off, struggling to riposte.

Jakinzaa waved a scythe, the air sighing softly through the tribal incisions, 'Don't worry about it, don't worry about it. The rest of the story will tell you, won't it, eh?' Seeing the younger female's expression clear at this thought, she continued, 'Soon, of course, they reached the chasm in the rock and down far below inside that there was the long, narrow path that led to the omastar's brutal, evil altar. The catastrophe had slowed them a lot because they looked and saw that the procession was approaching already, and the prisoners could be made out easily amongst the white barbarous shells of their captors…'

_ 'There's the kabuto, and the two shiraari and the kabtaar!' whispered Haakmin to Shaaca, both hunkered down at the lip of the crevasse, 'If we attack from above we can deal with the ones holding them easily, and then they can help us to fight too!'_

_ When Shaaca spoke her voice was quiet not just because she did not want to be heard but because the death of Tziir was almost too much for her. She drew back from the edge and said, 'We should have more of a plan than that. There are many of them. They managed to overpower the other two djirnoi and a few__delfiiri, as well as the kabu captured down there. We need a plan or we will fail.'_

_ Haakmin shook his head at this; he saw clearly that the death was affecting her and so set about bringing to the front her battlelust. He called upon her obligations to the tribe, to him and to Tziir, and with the spirit of the hero behind them the words overcame the female's inhibitions and swayed her to attack with him. Yet it had taken time, and to their horror they found their targets had almost reached the end of the thin chasm and would soon be out in the wider area before the altar, where they could manoeuvre more easily and bring their numbers to bear!_

_ Jumping to stop this from happening, Shaaca and Haakmin raced along the lip of the chasm and then leapt as one: Shaaca striking hard at the two omastar dragging the unconscious kabtaar while Haakmin attacked those hustling along the young kabuto. They cut down their targets easily and went for more, dealing terrible damage to the bewildered enemy before one underhandedly grasped a healer in his tentacles and threatened to kill him if they did not halt their vicious attack. While the kabuto had already hidden amongst the rocks and were temporarily safe, Haakmin and Shaaca were beaten horribly, frozen for the sake of the hostage shiraar, and blood seeped from the gaps in their armour and dribbled from their mouths while the monstrous omastar roared their approval of this brutality._

_ Finally, glutted on violence and seeking a final atrocity, the omastar forced the two together and the largest wrapped his tentacles around their necks and arms to hold them in place while another, the leader with his long spikes and wicked black eyes, aimed the deadly spines at them. One shot through them both, he declared, because there was no need to waste. Shaaca and Haakmin squirmed and fought, but they were weakened and it was all too much. The leader took aim and they prepared themselves for death._

_ But it did not come, because the leader took too long lining up that one attack, and with a resounding crack his shell was split into two by a heavy impact from above and the sharp, skilful blade of a kabutops tore through his soft, weak face, killing him instantly. A cry went up from the captured kabu: it was Tziir, alive and balanced on the back of his kill, wrenching his blade free from the flesh and casting his intelligent gaze about._

_ Although injured, Tziir was still swift: he leapt from the dead body and quickly struck down the omastar holding captive the poor healer, then dealt the same blow to the barbarous monster that held still Shaaca and Haakmin. Whirling again whilst the two freed themselves from their bonds he cut down three more, then as quickly as he had arrived he collapsed, right in front of the four remaining omastar of the force. Lying face down revealed the horrendous damage to his back; the rocks had crushed his narrow fins and his tail was bloodied and limp. Haakmin and Shaaca were still bound at the neck with the dead creature's tentacles – they attempted to move forward to protect their friend but their movements were not together and they fell. Unlike their leader, the four remaining warriors wasted no time in firing a barrage of deadly spikes at Tziir. They flew straight and true._

_ Right into Kabtaar Zaahira._

'The kabtaar stumbled and fell, her chest full of spines, just as Tziir found the strength to regain his feet and, joined by Shaaca and Haakmin, now freed fully from their bonds, cut down the enemy. Thus all the omastar were dead, but there was no joy amongst the kabu, as they gathered around the dying kabtaar, the Bladesworn kneeling closest. Haakmin supported her carefully as one of the healers looked over the wounds, but the spines were buried too deep, having hit at such short range, and the blood ran thick and black from the joints in Zaahira's chest armour.

'Horrified, Tziir asked why the kabtaar had sacrificed herself thus, and the leader coughed a little as she declared that it was to ascertain the tribe retained its most beneficial member, he who cared most for his fellows and possessed the great skill and strength that allowed him to protect them. She said she valued the Bladesworn as a unit above herself also, and would forever regret it had she allowed one of them to perish, cutting short their time as a team. And as she spluttered out the end of her life, Kabtaar Zaahira foresaw with a glint of utter faith in her darkening gaze that the alliance of equals would indeed bring an end to the bloody war between the oma and the kabu.'

Jakinzaa sighed, lowering her head. 'And we did believe her.'

Silence expanded between them, heavy in the air, and Siira squirmed uncomfortably under its weight. She was desperate to hear the end of the tale - the uplifting, happy conclusion that invariably drew to a close even the most melancholy of Bladesworn legends – but Jakinzaa made no sign of continuing.

'Jakinzaa…?' she inquired at length, raising up onto her elbows.

The old kabutops stirred, blinking slowly before shaking her head to clear it.

'I'm sorry,' she told Siira, 'But the ending of that story is more real to me than any tale of exaggerated heroism. You, my dear, must keep in mind that Tziir is not just a legend or a hero but a living kabutops, and in time you will realise he is all the better for it.'

'_That's _the end?' the raakin exclaimed in disbelief, 'But that's a boring end, what about when they got back and celebrated victory and things?'

'What victory was there to celebrate?'

Siira missed the unusually sharp edge to Jakinzaa's reply, too disappointed with what the elder had previously declared to be the most important of all Bladesworn tales.

'They defeated the omastar and saved the prisoners,' she insisted stubbornly, 'That kabtaar was only one casualty.'

Jakinzaa was on her feet faster than Siira had ever thought ancient ligaments could lift her, and as she stumbled back in shock at the sharp movement she became aware that the elder loomed. Usually so calm, slow and magnanimous, Jakinzaa had never registered in Siira's mind as anything but a peaceful storyteller, but now fear pricked at the young female's nerves.

'Have you listened at all, Raakin_?_' Jakinzaa rumbled, towering tall as the kabtaar and suddenly just as commanding a presence. 'KabtaarZaahira was a real Kabutops, not just an element to a fanciful story. Would you be so dismissive of a death if it was Zetaahn's? If it was mine?'

Siira shook her head frantically, cowering lower.

'No, Tmiirin,' she bleated, 'I just. I just wanted a nice ending. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry.'

Although still grim, Jakinzaa's expression lost some of its thunder as she stared down at the petrified raakin_._ She let out a long, steadying breath.

'No, I'm sorry,' she said. 'In times like these, what are stories for, if not to take us to happier places?'

Siira peered up at her cautiously. 'To make me think before I open my big mouth...?'

She was rewarded with a short chuckle from the elder.

'Yes, yes, there is that,' she said, glancing over Siira and down towards the beach as she spoke. 'I think perhaps it's time you depart, my dear... But truly. Don't be so quick to condemn anyone in these difficult times. You may find we are all quite good company when we're not fearing for our lives, hm?'

The younger kabutops nodded quickly, still somewhat on edge after the swift change in Jakinzaa's demeanour, and darted to her feet. Her goodbyes to the last remaining elder of the tribe were delivered automatically whilst her mind tussled with a plethora of new notions, most prevalent of which she found raising her spirits ever so slightly. If Jakinzaa of all people could suddenly become so menacing because of something foolish she had said, maybe Tziir had just suffered a bad moment out on the dunes. That would mean he could still be the intelligent, passionate and reserved creature of the legends, just with the ability to get particularly angry tagged on because he was _a real kabutops._

A spring forming in her step, Siira made towards the exit. Jakinzaa really did know how to cheer her up, she thought, even if she had to scare her to do it. She never should have doubted the old kabu. Head raised and shoulders back, the revitalised raakin strode airily from beneath the overhanging bracken and around the boulder protecting Jakinzaa from the wind. Straight into the kabtaar himself.

Warrior reflexes stopped both sharply, though not fast enough to avoid the blunt front edges of their scythes clacking together. So close as to be able to see the flesh around his eyes, Siira had no time to panic: Tziir took one sharp step back and tilted his head to her.

'Raakin,' he said respectfully, his deep voice rumbling.

'Kabtaar,' she blurted back.

For a few seconds she stood dumbly, not quite sure what to say or how to excuse herself, while the kabtaar peered at her expectantly. Finally, he raised a blade in the direction she had come from, and she realised she had frozen right in Jakinzaa's doorway.

'Might I be allowed to pass?' Tziir enquired.

'Oh, certainly, I mean, I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was in the way so, so I'll move right now,' she babbled, forgetting to actually stand aside until he gave her a more pointed look.

Showing the sharp edges of his blades in thanks, he went to step inside, only for Siira's mouth to get the better of her again.

'Does she, uh, tell you stories too? Kabtaar?'

He gave her a sideways glance, frowning slightly, and a plethora of reasons not to talk with the kabtaar surged into her mind. She was just a lowly raakin, for one, so it was unseemly; there was their disagreement earlier that day; he obviously wanted to be on his way; they weren't friends; he was decades her elder; her question was stupid and, when she thought about it, insinuated he was big headed because, well, listening to the Bladesworn legends would essentially be him listening to stories all about himself; and, more pressingly than all those other things, she was highly likely to babble again.

'Yes, Raakin, some time ago she did. Not the same tales you hear, undoubtedly, but similar in spirit, I suspect,' he said, frown deepening as he continued, 'This visit is for far less pleasant reasons, however. You should be on your way.'

The shock of receiving such a reply actually brought her mind back from the gibbering stage. Bringing her heels together sharply, Siira gave a swift salute.

'Yes sir,' she said clearly, then turned and strode down the beach with a warrior's gait.

It was only when she was sure that Tziir could no longer see her that she gave the air a victory slice, laughing. An encounter with the kabtaar that didn't involve shouting or humiliation. She was on her way up.


	6. Family

It's mostly-new content time. ;D

* * *

><p><strong>PLAGUE<strong>  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Family

Shaaca's sharp, silver talons dug into the soft layer of black splattered over the solid rock at the lip of the pit, her wings stirring the broad leaves at her back. Silently she peered down into the bubbling ooze below, her violet gaze barely focusing on the thick mass of tar as fumes tickled her throat.

This was it. She had found it easily, though the knowledge gave her no satisfaction. So she could navigate. So she had been here before. It didn't make much difference in the grand scheme of things, did it? Not one of her so-called skills had made a difference.

The pit wasn't large but could swallow her easily, she knew. And it was so black. Black like her. Vaguely she wondered if she would blend in as she sank: vividly her imagination conjured up the way the tar might wrap around her, folding over itself and shifting with her movements, with the slow death waltz her mind prescribed to her limbs. Sluggish, burning, it would dip into the crevices of her armour and blot out the shining silver, seep down her throat and cut out her breath-

Horrified, she lurched back, violet eyes sharpening as they darted around. She couldn't think like that; she had a mission to carry out, things to do, omastar to slaughter.

_A mission? Kognook is dead!_

The piercing metallic shriek of her wings tore through the forest as she raced back the way she had come, scythes slicing through vines and branches that barred her way with deft, thoughtless grace. She had to force it down. Force it down and lock it away. Just as she had done with Haakmin. The mission had to come first.

o o o

Tziir stepped into Jakinzaa's hovel, his helmed head scraping past an overhanging branch and showering him with splintered wood.

'A little lower next time perhaps, my kabtaar,' Jakinzaa suggested warmly, looking up at him from the animal hide Siira had occupied not long before.

She sat cross-legged, a position made possible by the rounding off of her leg barbs with age, her carved scythes resting in her lap. Still and peaceful, as she had always been. Shaking off the shards of wood that clung to his armour, Tziir masked a sigh and crouched beside her, their huge, shielded heads nearly touching.

As the last surviving kabutops of her generation, she had lost too much to this plague. That she had always distanced herself from the rest by choosing to live up here, well up the beach with her trees and her insects, hadn't eased the sting of a single death; he had seen her lower her head in grief more times than he cared to count. Not for the first time, he wished he could come to her with something good to report. Just once.

'Would it be too much to say I never was one for stooping?' he enquired, glancing sideways at her.

'Most definitely,' she replied briskly, reaching up to flick a missed splinter from his shoulder with the flat of her scythe. 'Why, I remember distinctly that case with the lileep when-'

'Tmiirin Jakinzaa,' he interrupted pointedly.

'Yes, yes, I know, my kabtaar. You needn't worry. I haven't been recycling that particular incident as folklore,' she assured him, though there was an undeniably impish tone to her voice that Tziir wasn't entirely sure he appreciated. 'Not to say the temptation was never there, but in the end it wasn't really Bladesworn material...'

'Far too free of ghosts, monsters and overblown notions of heroism, undoubtedly,' he agreed.

'If by that you mean amusement beyond the crude humour of an old kabutops, yes. I do have to mystify them with something and the tales I told _your_ lot had become rather stale.'

'You could, perhaps, cease to mystify them altogether.'

'And what do you think would sustain them through the noons between battles, hm?'

'The goal should be enough in itself.'

The tmiirin laughed. 'Is that what you've been teaching this new batch? No wonder some of them are fast becoming grouchy as you.'

He gave a disapproving but good natured snort, eliciting a smile from the elder. They sat in companionable silence for a while, the breeze occasionally singing tunes through the cuts in her scythes.

'I am ready now,' she said at length, turning to face Tziir fully. 'I know you didn't come here to listen to the wind, Kabtaar.'

Her steely gaze met his, resigned. He almost resented her for prompting him. Even with all the things he needed to do clawing at the back of his mind, sitting with her in the quiet for the entire day would have been vastly preferable to passing on the news. He took a deep breath. Bemoaning fate would never help him escape it.

'Kognook is dead.'

The elderly kabutops folded in on herself as though punctured. She slumped forward, head and shoulders drooping, and her third lid slid halfway shut over her eyes.

'He had lasted so much longer than the others – I had started to hope...'

Tziir pushed his plated head against hers. 'You weren't the only one. He had... his mother's tenacity, lasting as long as he did.'

'She must be devastated,' said Jakinzaa, raising her eyes to peer beseechingly at Tziir, the weariness evident in her posture echoed in her tone. 'You know how she is, Kabtaar. You must support her, like you used to. No more of this coldness between you. Please.'

He met her gaze, carefully keeping his expression neutral. The tmiirin knew Shaaca's ways just as well as he did. She knew the aashnin's reckless streak, how single-minded she could become and how badly it had hurt her in the past. To let on that he had allowed her to run off alone in such a state would only worry the elderly kabutops, worry that he could easily help her to avoid through a simple lie of omission.

He sat up straighter, nodding. 'Of course.'

It was firmly planted in the forefront of his mind again, though: that aching fear. He tried to focus on Jakinzaa as she sighed but all he could see was Shaaca driven wild with grief, hurtling through the wilderness and bursting out into the open above the omastar's bay to the deadly whistle of a barrage of spines.

'Thank you,' the elder kabutops said, turning her head away and missing the inadvertent flex of Tziir's scythes as one-sided battle played out across his mind. 'Poor Kognook.'

His muscles singing with the urge to race after his aashnin, the kabtaar barely kept still. Distantly he echoed Jakinzaa's words.

'Poor... Kognook.'

o o o

'Be careful. You don't want him falling in.'

From atop a suitably tar-free rock, Raahn observed as the aashnin lowered Zetaahn onto the ground near the lowest lip of the pit. The obsidian kabutops had yet to acknowledge him directly since her return, save to offer him a seat on her shoulder as she carried their wounded raakin through the jungle_,_ but the kabuto had decided to take this as a challenge rather than an insult. Indeed, he had resolved to throw out useful comments as they occurred to him. Eventually, he knew, the brilliance of his insight would remind her of his worth and she would hang onto his every word.

'He almost looks like a big dead fish from up here, you know. A spiny one. With legs.'

'I do not,' Zetaahn grumbled back, flinching as Shaaca pushed at his cracked shell with the blunt edge of her scythe.

The youngest of the group had finally regained consciousness halfway through the trek, alerting his companions to his awakening by throwing up down the aashnin's back and prompting a full halt while the irritable female hunted for a water source. When none could be found in the immediate area it had been down to Raahn to clean his superior's fins with a few leaves. As a result, he had no qualms with insulting the raakin even more than usual. It seemed a fair bet that Shaaca was unlikely to intervene on Zetaahn's behalf.

'No, on second thoughts you do lack the brilliance of a fish, both in iridescence and mental capacity.'

'Who told you fish were brilliant? They're not. They're stupid.'

'They're brilliant _comparatively_ when set beside _you_,' Raahn clarified, cackling.

His laughter trailed off as a metallic hum drew his attention from Zetaahn to the aashnin, whose violet eyes were narrowed in irritation. Ducking his gaze, he hunkered down on his rock.

'Sorry,Aashnin,_' _came the muffled apology from beneath his dark shell. 'I shall dedicate my efforts to... extensive study of this rock face.'

Zetaahn did his best not to grin as Shaaca turned back to him, a task made considerably simpler when her expression remained just as cold and disapproving. Squirming uncomfortably as she reached down into the tar pit and brought up a scytheful of viscous black ooze, he couldn't help but feel exceptionally vulnerable spread out on his back like this. A cold sweat began to form in the gaps between his armour plates as she forced his head against his chest with her elbow, eyeing the cracks in his helm as she figured out how to apply the tar. Peering up at her as best he could with pressure on his forehead, he saw her stop and glance right at him.

Holding his gaze she said gruffly, 'Calm yourself.'

He swallowed. 'I am calm, Aashnin_._'

'Oh?'

Her clean scythe materialised beneath the curve of his chin before he even saw her move. A hair's width from his shell, the blade emitted an odd clicking sound he couldn't quite place until he heard their cowering strategist snort derisively from his rock.

'Shaking,' Shaaca said, withdrawing the scythe. 'You need to be still.'

'I'm trying,' he replied, tensing.

With a hiss of blade on blade, Shaaca sliced the tar from her scythe and deposited it on the ground near his flank. She stood swiftly, looming over him, and looked down intently.

'Not hard enough. Get up.'

Zetaahn blinked. 'But I thought you wanted me to rest as much as possible.'

'I've changed my mind. Get up and fight.'

The click of Raahn's legs on rock as the kabuto raised himself up to watch was lost on Zetaahn, who found his nervousness building into utter panic. He was light-headed, slightly dizzy; his joints ached from a night spent tossing and turning; and the nausea that had persisted throughout the day was worse than ever. The idea of fighting amplified every complaint. The idea of fighting Shaaca made him want to pass out. That way he would probably lie still enough to appease her too, now that he thought about it, so maybe it was a course of action she would endorse.

'Raakin. Now.'

Wondering vaguely if the aashnin intended on 'accidentally' tripping him into the tar pit for his little faux pas earlier, Zetaahn clambered unsteadily to his feet, the aching in his head increasing to a distracting throb.

He had never been good at duels. The balance between trying to fight as well as he could and making sure he didn't move so fast his opponent couldn't keep up was just plain difficult and, if he was totally honest, the potential mishaps scared him. Hesitantly, thinking of the occasional ugly wound he had seen as a result of raakin training duels gone grisly, he adopted a defensive posture.

'Hm, your choice,' said Shaaca.

She shifted into an aggressive stance.

His heart fluttering against his chest, Zetaahn realised she had let him choose who went on the attack first. He had just chosen wrongly. Panicking at the thought of the aashnin's blades slicing at him, he tried to shift stance in the vague hope she would allow it, but she was already striking out, her left scythe arching towards his flank. Yelping, he stumbled backward, the very tip of the blade grazing his armour with a shriek.

'Aashnin, I-'

The right blade cut him off, tilting at the last second to turn the slash into a slap against his hip. Staggering to the side, the world spinning sickly around him, he felt sour bile push against the back of his throat and gagged, spluttering phlegm.

'Raakin!'

'I can't,' he gurgled, humiliating tears pricking at his eyes.

'Your kabtaar wouldn't have picked you for this mission if you couldn't,' she snapped. 'Now raise your blades, stop giving ground and show me what convinced him!'

_Luck and lies_, he thought wretchedly, glancing up just in time to see her next attack sweep towards his shoulder.

His left blade jerked into an awkward parry only for the right to be immediately busied fending off Shaaca's following strike. He saw her elbow loosen just before impact; her scythe bounced neatly from his as he blocked, the shock of impact jarring all the way up to his shoulder, and sliced straight back in beneath his guard. There was no kindly turning of her sickle this time: it was only a hasty, terrified leap backwards that saved Zetaahn from being split across the belly.

Landing solidly on a flat expanse of rock, he lashed out instinctively as Shaaca leapt after him, only for her to neatly sidestep the attack and continue her assault. Each strike calculated and precise, a marked difference showed between her form and that of his peers. There was no hesitation, no flash of indecision in her eyes as she second-guessed her movements. No sign that she doubted his ability to defend himself even at this speed, either. The aashnin trusted him.

The knowledge provided a surge of excitement and adrenaline, the pain in his head lessening as he threw himself into the task of repelling her expert blows. There was no discernible pattern to her strikes; she seemed equally comfortable leading with her left as with her right and more than happy to miss a beat and dodge one of his enthusiastic but apparently predictable blows before retaliating hard and fast.

Defending himself became artful guesswork, his reflexes improving with every last-second dodge or hasty parry until he was barely thinking at all, something deeper driving his limbs. His sickles moved so fast his arms ached beneath their armour. He began to match her, the aashnin of his tribe, the supposed strongest amongst them, and him nothing more than an untried raakin, injured no less but actually in with a chance-

His brain barely registered what could only be a gleam of amusement in Shaaca's eyes before she hit both his scythes with such raw power he was instantly rendered numb up to the shoulder. Her own blades arching back around, she swiped at him with both at once, a manoeuvre he wouldn't have known how to repel even if he wasn't already effectively disarmed. Eyes wide, he launched himself out of the way, crashing painfully into one of the trees surrounding the pit and nearly losing his footing altogether. Staggering, he leapt blindly from the edge of the forest to one of the broad, flat stones encircling the tar, looking around wildly for his opponent. She had disappeared entirely from view.

The raakin swallowed, checked his footing on this new ground and cast his gaze about, his pulse thudding through his joints. The forest stood firm before him, overhanging branches, swathes of moss, assorted shrubs and prevalent shadow hiding Shaaca but failing to disguise the sounds of her movement. His head tilted to the side as he listened. Zetaahn raised his blades, arms still tingling, and grinned as a rustle of leaves to his left gave her away in an instant.

'I'm ready, Aashnin!' he bellowed to the thick foliage in which she undoubtedly hid, his shoulders hunched and attention fully focused on that very spot.

In hindsight, he should have realised she would never be so easy to track.

Bursting from the undergrowth to his far right, Shaaca charged him directly: a gleaming streak of polished black and silver that ploughed into his flank shoulder-first. Staggering back to the very lip of the pit, their scythes tangled and muscles straining, the two kabutops wrestled chest to chest, growling with the effort. Even his new-found strength failed to make it an even match. Part of an older, larger, heavier generation with more barbs and five times the experience, the aashnin only needed to strengthen her stance with a tiny step to the side and she would overpower him with ease.

He didn't expect the hook. Giving a sudden shove with pure brute force, she slipped one leg behind his while he struggled to regain his balance and in one sweeping pull sent him tumbling backwards over the edge. Scalding fumes seared his back.

_I'm dead,_ he began to think, too bewildered to really process fear at the concept.

His brain barely even made the first syllable. Her expression unchanging, Shaaca reached out in that split second before he passed the point of no return, hooked her arm through his and hurled him back onto land_._

She turned slowly for any duelling combatant, let alone the aashnin, and he anticipated her words before she even started to say them. _That will be enough._ They were bad words. He considered himself to be doing her a favour by cutting them off. He surged forward just as she drew breath, a flicker of surprise showing in her eyes as she turned her head and found the sharp side of a blade already mere centimetres from her face. Her scythes lowered to signify the end of a duel, it was going to take every bit of that speed she had shown before to raise them in time. But of course he trusted her to make it, she was the best warrior in the tribe, she could deal with just about anything-

The blade struck home.

The resulting crack scared Raahn off his perch, but Shaaca was past noticing. The look of disbelief on Zetaahn's face as a duck of her head caused his scythe to skitter across the sweep of her helm, too, was of no particular interest. No, she had come impossibly close to a particularly ugly defeat, obsidian armour or otherwise, and her blood was already rising to the challenge, her wings' hum developing that particular piercing edge to it.

'Aashnin, are you- I mean, I never thought-'

'Zetaahn! Alert!' barked Raahn from the ground, not a second too soon.

No holding back. From at ease to striking without pause, she slashed down at Zetaahn's shoulder, horizontally at his abdomen, straight up towards his chin. Every demand she made of her body was met with the sharp, swift precision of a century's worth of practice. Driving him back towards the trees, towards fallen leaves and precarious footing, was easy even with the same battle lust mirrored in his eyes, even with the odd competent parry amongst the weak bluster he had fallen back on.

He was off balance: hell, he had been off balance since he'd hit her, but this was something else. He knew it too. She saw the beginnings of a well-guarded correction in the angle of his scythes and the hasty shifting of his weight, but had no interest in letting it reach its fruition. The dull side of her left blade rammed into the one soft spot on his flank, forcing the air from his lungs before folding, slipping past him and lending its momentum to her body. Spinning, she half crouched before kicking the raakin square in the back with enough force to send him hurtling into a tree. Colliding chest-first with the trunk, he slid to its base and lay there sprawled in the dirt, coughing. Practically finished. All that was left was to actualise it.

Just as she took her first step forward to carry the deed out, he raised his head. Sheer admiration shone in his eyes, not terror. For a second her warrior's mind struggled to comprehend it: the contrast between that expression and those she was used to receiving from prey was so sharp it pierced straight through the veil of red. She blinked, the burst of extra energy fading from her limbs. Young, impressionable and unaware of the danger he had been in, Zetaahn blinked back. He grinned and lurched to his feet.

She raised her chin, eyeing him up and down. 'Are you all right?'

'Yup,' he replied, shaking an impaled leaf from the tip of one scythe before shooting her a worried look. 'We're not stopping, are we?'

Her smile would later be blamed on the rush of battle, but for the time being it was simply a smile: relieved and just a little charmed.

'It would be for the best.'

'Of course it would be for the best,' Raahn snapped from the sidelines, his irritation seemingly aimed at both kabutops equally. 'In case you've forgotten, our present aim is the treatment of Zetaahn's injury, not the continuation of your petty sport until one of you brains the other.'

Glancing sideways at the huffing kabuto, Shaaca gave a half nod before gesturing for Zetaahn to sit. His eyes, still wide and eager from the fight, followed her as she circled him, crossing and uncrossing her blades absently as she considered the task set before her.

'Close your eyes,' she said at length, pausing in her pacing, 'And reflect on the fight for me. You did well but you could do better. Tell me everything you noticed.'

Looking over Zetaahn's bloody head to Raahn, she gave him a pointed look before raising her scythe in the direction of the tar she had already extracted from the pit. The telniin hesitated for a second, processing the command, before indicating he understood with a few clicks of his claws.

'I enjoyed myself, Aashnin,' Zetaahn told her between heavy breaths, unaware of the critical look she was casting over his cracked shell, 'Which doesn't usually happen... Duels with other raakinoi were always clumsy. When it's clear someone's as inexperienced as me, I spend the whole time worrying about how I could accidentally spear them, you know?'

'And this was different,' she said, narrowing her eyes at the fracture, where the gathering of blood was thick and brown with dust.

'I was more worried about you hurting me than me hurting you, Aashnin,' he replied, grinning. 'I wasn't holding back 'cause there wasn't any reason to. I just went for it and... I don't know. I felt separate from myself at one point, like I wasn't purposefully working out how to parry and strike back. I just did it.'

'Battle trance. It means you've trained well.'

'I'm ready to become a delfiir?'

'I wouldn't stretch it that far.'

She glanced over at Raahn, who was busily transferring tar to his shell with stubby claws, muttering out curses under his breath when the viscous substance refused to cooperate.

'What else?' she asked the raakin, realising he had fallen silent.

'You're fast,' he said immediately, 'Much faster than I am.'

She frowned. 'So you did notice. Explain, then, why you kept trying to match my speed.'

'You're better than me at everything else too,' he replied a little sheepishly, 'I couldn't see anything more to do.'

'Aim to strike as I strike,' she said, cocking her head to the side and observing the rigid line of his back as he sat at attention. 'I'm not trying to kill you, so continuing my strike and finishing you off to halt your blow wouldn't be an option. I would have to abort my swing and parry yours, perhaps even tie up my other scythe dealing with it too. Even if it didn't get you an immediate opening, you would break my rhythm, push me onto the defensive for an instant. Enough to perhaps gain a modicum of control.'

Zetaahn poked at the earth with his blades, perplexed, before peering up at her. 'But Aashnin.'

She sliced the air right in front of his face and his eyes snapped shut again.

'Aashnin, that doesn't have any proper application outside of a duel. Why learn to do it? You'd hit me first in a real fight.'

She hissed at him, eliciting an embarrassed duck of his head. Did all the raakinoi sport such gaping holes in their general knowledge? Maybe gaps in their education were to be expected when the experienced warriors meant to teach them were floating corpses tethered to the seabed below the kiteraan shelf, but that didn't stop the surge of indignation at the thought of the new fighting force of her tribe being so poorly informed.

'A duel isn't to practice moves you can copy perfectly across into battle,' she chided somewhat more passionately than intended. 'If you haven't noticed, you fight other kabutops in duels. How frequently do you think that's the case in real battles?'

Trundling over, Raahn settled at her feet with the tar piled carefully on his back.

'Aashnin Shaaca simply wants you to consider the motives and aims of your attacker and factor those into your tactics,' he explained. 'Being creative is what separates excellent warriors from those who are merely serviceable.'

Reaching down to scoop tar from Raahn's shell, Shaaca clicked her agreement. Memories of the very same principle being repeated to her in various different forms when she was newly evolved swam clearly into focus despite the decades that had passed since: memories in which she sat, wide eyed with fascination, as her only friend paced in front of her, swishing his scythes through the air as he lectured her on form and strategy as though she were like any other kabutops. Fresh-faced Delfiir Tziir, his speeches tumbling into eloquent rants as he began to pick apart his own logic mid-flow or peel off at some seemingly random tangent in pursuit of further truths. Turning suddenly to her - 'Do you think that's right? Do you know of anything similar?' - and really believing that her juvenile opinion carried some weight.

The recollection stung. She forced it deeper into her mind, focusing instead on Zetaahn himself. Popular amongst his peers. Self-confident, if whiny. Nothing like her, but still entirely worth her effort because he was part of the future of the tribe and yet still so very young, just like-

She focused on Zetaahn.

'Is that why you kicked me, Aashnin?' he was enquiring dubiously, presumably set back by Raahn's display of knowledge.

She snorted, disbelieving. The dark thoughts were locked back for now, buried deep under the moment. 'You've never been kicked?'

He crossed his scythes emphatically. 'Never! I was told you never wanted your legs ahead of your scythes. Djirnaar Jaahzi said if you were legless you might as well be headless, insofar as expected lifespan was concerned, and legs first was a sure way to make it happen.'

'I think there's an insult in there somewhere, Aashnin,' said Raahn.

'Quite,' she agreed, smirking despite the abyss her heart teetered above. 'Did you mean to say your tribe's helniin executed a reckless, poorly considered move, Raakin?'

Giving him no chance to reply and herself no pause for thought, she hooked the joint of her scythe under his chin and tipped back his head brusquely, aiming at a point just over the ugly injury.

'I think you did,' she tutted, and muted his objections with a gentle stream of water.

Colliding with the curve of his helm and swirling over the crack, it washed filth from the wound, splattering on the rocks at their feet. Zetaahn jumped at the sudden cold, eyes flying open and darting around in confusion. Apparently they fell on the dome of tar at his feet, because Shaaca heard him murmur in confusion, 'Raahn?'

The strategist let out an irritable growl. 'No, it's the many-legged black goo pile here to watch the show,' he snapped, 'And that, by the way, is the magic waterfall of bladed demise.'

She snorted, working tar between her scythes as she said, 'Had I such a title.'

Zetaahn's eyes rolled as far back as they could to try and look at her. 'But Aashnin suits you,' he said plaintively.

'Of course it does,' Raahn interjected with his usual superior tone. '"Midnight general" as opposed to "Kabtaar's general". No other helniin could alter their title quite like that.'

'I know that,' the raakin snapped back. 'Everyone does.'

'Yes, well, it seems best not to assume knowledge with you – any knowledge at all.'

Their bickering was soothing somehow; she wasn't really processing the particular words as she began to smooth hot tar over Zetaahn's broken helm, but the babble of voices expanded across her consciousness with just enough weight to hold down all the things she really didn't want to think about. As the exchange broke down to name-calling, it occurred to her that she hadn't heard any sort of discourse beyond the clipped comments between shiraari for weeks. Because of Kognook.

'Aashnin, why is it no one else has wings like yours, anyway?'

The comforting chatter halted as Zetaahn waited for a reply, but it mattered little. The thought was already loose and stalking through her head unchecked, overwhelming every other notion it encountered. It took every ounce of willpower she had to finish her work on his injury before staggering back from him, off balance, ropes of tar hanging thickly from her scythes and drooping toward the ground. Speech seemed impossible.

'Aashnin?' he repeated, turning rigidly so as not to tilt his head.

She sucked in air, vaguely aware of Raahn's rueful look of comprehension from down by Zetaahn's feet. Even with the tar scraped away, his shell was still as black as hers. Like Kognook's could have been, had he hatched with her looks.

'We should get moving again,' the telniin proposed gently, skittering a short way toward her.

Clearly perplexed by his elders, Zetaahn eyed Raahn sideways. 'What about your shell?'

'It doesn't matter.'

Ignoring the raakin's further questions, the kabuto moved closer still until he could reach out and tap Shaaca's leg lightly.

'Aashnin,' he said, 'It'll be best to keep moving.'

She forced herself to steady her breath, her transparent lid closing over her eyes, before giving a weak nod. Of course it was best to keep moving, just like it was best to keep busy. That had just been proven. One minute of calm and her warrior's composure had failed her, her mind wandering until she was once again reminded of that most chilling of possibilities: that her resentment toward her only son would never fade.


	7. Rock Bottom

**PLAGUE**  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Rock Bottom

'It's not that,' said Shiraar Rinaari. 'I know we're almost an entirely new group, but we know what we're doing. The plague is just too much.'

Kabtaar Tziir nodded slowly, watching the young kabutops as she made a deft slice in her sandy, soft healer skin and trickled blood into her patient's mouth. Her movements were professional and precise as she licked the cut shut and flicked warm sand over the prostrated raakin. Even the swelling under her left shoulder plate where Shaaca had struck her drew no complaint.

Tziir couldn't help but be impressed by the way she handled herself, going about her business with an air of confidence despite his presence. She seemed at ease with making him wait as she checked over the acid burn wounds marring the young warrior's shell and, tired as he was, the kabtaar appreciated the casual lull. Observing her regulated actions was soothing after an ill-fated attempt to submit the raakinoi to an early morning training session.

Apparently satisfied with her findings, the shiraar shook sand from her blunt scythes and approached her leader with the blades angled respectfully inward.

'How does he fare?' inquired the larger kabutops, peering down at her questioningly.

'His current wounds should heal swiftly, Kabtaar,' she replied, 'But I think we both know what is coming. He shows no sign yet, but it's only a matter of time.'

Tziir raised his head higher, willing despair to slide down the sweeping shield and away.

Her voice distinctly tentative, she continued cautiously. 'I do believe I can prolong his life some, though.'

The kabtaar's head snapped around sharply, his angular blue eyes focusing on the healer's meekly bowed head. Slowly her eyes rolled up to meet his gaze. She tensed.

'How?' he enquired, voice harsher than he had intended. More gently he added, 'Have you discovered something new?'

Hesitating, the healer glanced over to her peers - three others who attended various different ka'aan around the shiraan - and then back to the kabtaar_,_ eyes pleading. Eyeing her curiously, he inclined his head in the direction of the beach and swept out a scythe in invitation.

'Perhaps words would come more easily out in the open air,' he said smoothly, rewarded with a warm look from the female.

Together, they walked along the waterline, the surf splashing around the kabtaar's talons as he strode ahead, his considerably smaller companion trotting just behind. A strong wind swept off the water, swirling around the pair before soaring off up the beach to where the raakinoi scuffled in the sand at a sensible pace for once. Eyeing them fleetingly, Tziir gave a curt nod of approval before slowing and addressing the healer.

'Shiraar Rinaari, I presume there is a reason why you weren't willing to discuss this in front of your peers.'

She turned her head away slightly, obviously uncomfortable.

'It's not their fault, Kabtaar. They're tired. Actually, we all are. We want a cure for the plague, which my discovery doesn't contribute towards; that makes it of little interest to them. I've been told to put it out of my mind to make room for more important things,' she told him, a determined note threading through her voice as she continued. 'Now that we're on the cusp of decisive action, though, I think prolonging the sufferers' lives is worthwhile. If we can keep everyone in the shiraan alive until you've crushed the omastar and removed the source of the sickness they could be cured!'

Quickly tightening his muscles to avert a telling change in body language, Tziir did his best to ignore his darkening spirits at her words. The mere mention of the planned offensive was enough to take his mind to unpleasant places. It disturbed him that a subject that brought him such discomfort had given young Rinaari such hope. Especially as he knew her optimism in the face of bloody war was entirely his doing.

'Kabtaar?' she enquired, her enthusiasm visibly tainted by Tziir's hesitation.

Shaking his head to clear it, the hulking kabutops tapped the tips of his scythes against his thigh plates in acknowledgement.

'What exactly is your discovery?' he asked.

'When the plague first struck, sufferers took weeks to die. Since then, the time it takes the sickness to kill has become shorter and shorter. We thought it was because of decreasing numbers of experienced shiraari,' she said, 'But now I think it's actually more to do with a decreasing number of kabu full stop.'

The kabtaar frowned. 'Fewer hunters?'

Rinaari crossed her blades. 'No. Fewer visitors.' Seeing his look of confusion she continued, 'Kabu left alone go faster. Those with friends or family at their sides last longer, sometimes even seem to be recovering.'

A short pause where the only sound was of distant splashing and the more rhythmic flow of the waves allowed Tziir to digest her words.

'I think that's why Kognook lasted so long. His mother provided him with someone to hold onto,' she added softly, glancing sideways up at him.

The widening of her eyes and ducking of her head made it evident that he had failed to hide his pained expression at the thought of that ill-fated family. Inwardly cursing his poor form, he smoothed his gaze into one of calm interest far too late.

'I'm sorry we couldn't do more for Kognook, Kabtaar,' the healer murmured, 'Or for his mother. I know she was dear to you.'

Increasingly violent splashing in the distance went beneath Tziir's notice, the kabtaar far too struck with the healer's words to pay his surroundings any further heed. _I know she was dear to you_, said as though the black kabutops was already dead, or that his affection had worn away at some point in the past, the ageing and eventually expiring remnant of an old tenderness akin to something familial. Had it really seemed that way to the people around him? That he had ceased to care? That the distance set between Shaaca and himself had stopped his chosen champion, his aashnin, from possessing his love? He set his jaw at a more pressing worry. Had it seemed that way to her?

Tziir took a deep breath. 'Aashnin Shaaca and I-'

Raakin Siira's cry as she thundered down the beach cut him off: 'Kabtaar! The kiteraan shelf!'

Even without explanation, the urgency in her shout was too strong to misinterpret. Pushing past the bewildered shiraar, Tziir broke into a sprint along the shore, heading for a massive outcropping of rock that protruded up from the sea onto the beach. Reaching it, he clambered up its steep side, a rain of dislodged seaweed and shale falling in his wake.

He launched himself from the top just as Siira reached the gap between his perch and the sheer cliff wall bordering the bay. Landing just ahead of her in the shallow water of the shelf, the kabtaar was already accelerating again in the direction she indicated when the scene ahead struck him directly in the chest, leaving him breathless with surprise. He stumbled and slowed for two strides before lurching back into top speed with a kabutopian roar of fury. At the edge of the shelf where the seabed fell away twenty meters, a large shape thrashed amongst plumes of spray. Jakinzaa.

It was impossible to identify her attackers in the foam frothing up around the tmiirin, but gashes in her legs and abdomen made their intent clear enough. Her useless scythes slapped at the dark shapes, catching one and sending it hurtling clear of the water. Rows of white and red fins flailed along its sides, grey, armoured claws reaching for Jakinzaa before it disappeared back into the spray. Tziir had never seen anything like it.

'We're coming!' cried Siira at his elbow.

Jakinzaa staggered at the sound of her voice, her head snapping up towards them. 'Stop, Tziir!' she cried.

The creatures stole the rest of her words away, three of them bursting from the waves and crashing solidly into her chest. With a gurgle, she pitched backward and disappeared into the deep water of the kiteraan.

Both warriors reached the edge a split second later. Tziir did not hesitate: he dug his talons into the rock and pushed off hard. Together they dove, arms and fins pressed flat to their bodies as they powered downward.

Far below, rank upon rank of dead kabutops floated just above the sea floor like a sunken army, tethered with lengths of woven seaweed. Some had decayed to nothing more than empty shells years ago, their hollow helms nodding in the current with the last ghostly curls of membrane blooming from their eye sockets. Those closest to the shore were victims of the plague: over fifty corpses all dead for less than a month, all perfect feeding places for every hungry sea creature from remoraid to krabby. What rigidity their remaining flesh provided for their limbs failed to keep them still against hundreds of burrowing jaws; the newest dead jerked and danced in the water.

The perfect hiding place, Tziir realised with disgust, and the perfect place to drag Tmiirin Jakinzaa. No self-respecting kabutops could enter the kiteraan save to tether new dead; its sanctity was one of the few unspoken rules never to have been questioned in living memory. To plunge in there with violence in mind was unthinkable.

There was no doubting the creatures' comprehension of this fact. Swarming around the thrashing shape of Jakinzaa, they forced her deeper through the water, their flat bodies bending easily out of the way of her increasingly desperate swipes. Around flurries of bubbles and swirls of blood, Tziir counted eight, maybe nine of them. Amongst the cadavers, those numbers could prove fatal.

A quick burst of bubbles ordered Siira to take the right flank. He didn't wait for confirmation. A concentrated jet surfaceward forced the last of the air from his body, sending him hurtling toward the bottom. In seconds, the first enemy came into range, the eye stalks on either side of its head straining to focus on the kabtaar.

It had no time to dodge. Tziir's strike caught the joint where head met abdomen, slicing straight through its exoskeleton in a burst of blood and translucent tissue. Forcing its body further open with a twist of his blade, he yanked its claws from Jakinzaa's flesh and hurled it away. Another struggled to detach itself from the elderly kabutops, caught between two armour plates, and he dispatched it with cold fury.

To his right, Siira deftly decapitated another before ramming its companion with her elbow. Blood flowed over the sweeping planes of her head as she swept around in the water to finish off her stunned foe, but no sooner had she cut through one side of its fins than another enemy slammed her from behind, a flurry of bubbles bursting from her mouth.

Without a thought, Tziir launched himself over her, slicing downward at the attacker. It darted aside, his scythe cutting empty water, but a powerful jet from the kabtaar's mouth spun it around. Disorientated for a split-second too long, it dove in a weaving line towards the kabutops graveyard, only for Jakinzaa herself to kick it solidly in the back, her gnarled talons tearing it open.

They were perilously low now, not a scythe's length above the nodding skulls of the tethered dead, and still outnumbered. Swatting two of the remaining four leeches from the tmiirin, Tziir went to signal for Siira to tow her to the surface, only for Jakinzaa's flailing knee to catch him solidly in the centre of his chest. A pressurised jet gushed from his mouth at the impact, blasting Siira in the shoulder and sending him flying backward between two of the oldest corpses. Sand bloomed up around him as he struck the bottom.

Grit choked him, obscured his vision; blindly he lashed out to right himself, only to catch his arm behind the blade on woven seaweed. Somewhere above, Siira continued to fight, sending flurries through the cloud of silt around Tziir. Sprawled on his back with his arm pulled taut, the kabtaar struggled to free himself, tensing against his bonds to no avail. They had been woven to endure the strength of the sea itself; brute force would never break him free. Overhead, the source of the swirling currents fell still.

Turning onto his belly and bringing his legs up beneath him, Tziir froze in his crouch, fins spread along his back in search of a reassuring eddy from the raakin. The seaweed was only looped around his arm, caught on the knuckle of his elbow, but thrashing had done nothing to fix it. Instead, he had succeeded only in shaking the empty armour of the dead kabutops overhead. Dislodged algae and strips of ancient membrane floated down around the kabtaar. He slipped the blunt edge of his free scythe under the braid, pulled it loose around his arm and worked his way free. It was the only procrastination he could justify.

'Raakin?' he enquired with a few sharp clicks.

Slowly he pushed away from the sea bed, floating level with the disturbed corpse. The solid plates had once housed a warrior far broader across the chest than Tziir himself, with longer barbs at the elbows and unusual spikes following the upper curve of the eye sockets. Though the ancient cadaver still floated in one piece, the kabtaar ducked his head apologetically.

'Kabtaar! They're dead. I have the tmiirin. Are you alright?'

Siira's response came in a harried series of clicks and scrapes of scythes on armour, and Tziir couldn't help but slump with relief at the sound.

'I'm fine. I'm coming,' he replied in the same fashion, raising his head to give the dead one last glance.

He was just about to kick off when he realised the corpse's left eye was staring back. Confusion caught him for a second. He floated in the water, peering through his third eyelid, questioning his own senses. Perhaps it wasn't an eye. More like an oval of red, hanging behind the dead kabutops' empty eye socket. The kabtaar peered closer. An oval of red on a dark grey background, drifting within a warrior's skull. Hiding there.

The red shifted and a real eye took its place, mounted on a living stalk.

'Siira!' clicked Tziir, darting away.

The corpse was alive with them: now that he was looking, the kabtaar saw fins and claws protruding from the cracks between armoured plates, glassy eyes watching him from every gap. He glanced around swiftly. The other bodies were the same. Their arms and legs jerked as the vermin within hurried to come out.

'To land! Now!'

He hurtled straight up, out over the seething kiteraan. Not far ahead, Siira dragged Jakinzaa's unresponsive form towards the nearest outcropping of rock, struggling with the unwieldy burden. Tziir powered after them, easily catching the raakin and slinging the tmiriin's dragging arm around his shoulders. Together they strained for speed, but with her shielded head tilted against the water Jakinzaa became a boulder strung between them. Even simultaneous jets from the two warriors failed to provide any substantial leap forward.

Instead, all the attempt provided was the first real glimpse of the enemy's numbers. They poured from the kiteraan, a swarm of hungry monsters that must have been close to forty strong. Hard to gauge for certain, but precision hardly mattered. If they caught up, the kabutops would be torn to pieces regardless.

Turning away grimly, Tziir found some satisfaction in the determined glint of the raakin's eyes. Panic in either of them would doom all three for certain, but it seemed she had a chance. As they swam, neither looking back, he drew in water until the armoured plates parted over his bulging abdomen. The cold weight sat heavy inside him; on land it would render him utterly helpless. Down here he trusted it with his life.

'No matter what,' clicked the kabtaar as they rose into the furthest weak ribbons of sunlight. He could hear the rumble of waves against rock. 'Don't stop.'

His fins flared, blades slicing through the water as he pivoted sharply. They were even closer behind than he expected; he impaled the closest by chance alone, then went after the next without a pause to shake the first corpse free.

These were the fastest, the most eager; those who had swept ahead of the rest without a second thought. Suddenly finding themselves facing the huge kabutops without proper support, some of them hesitated, others crashing into them from behind. Tziir had no qualms in taking advantage of these blunders. His scythes swatted and cleaved until the water around him was thick with gore.

But more were coming. They flew from the bloody murk in flurries of three and more, driving into the kabtaar even as his blades tore through foe after foe. One glanced off the flat of his helm, jerking his head back on his neck. Another slammed into his thigh, digging its pincers into the gap in his leg plate before a wild kick drove it away. Still more pummelled his back, his chest, his tail and fins, and the water in his reserves threatened to surge out uncontrolled. He bit it back, then writhed as an enemy thrust its claw deep into his side between his back and chest plates. Battered fins flaring in agony, he crushed its head with his elbow, a dark stream gushing from the narrow wound it left behind.

One slipped through his guard, chasing after Siira. Hurling away an armful of its brethren, Tziir sliced upward as far as he could reach, cleaving through the creature's stubby tail. He didn't see if the blow stopped it altogether. His blade was at full extent, his whole underarm left vulnerable, and an enemy struck without hesitation, nearly wrenching the kabtaar's arm from its socket. The creature's claws cut through his flesh and lodged deep inside, locking the joint solid.

One-armed, Tziir thrashed. It was no use. Enemies crashed into him from all sides, slamming him backward. They sliced at his joints. One gouged clear through his third lid, salt searing his left eye. They pummelled the kabtaar until water flowed freely from his jaws and his flesh swelled against his own armour.

Then his talons met rock.

It was the same outcropping he had cleared to join Siira as they ran. Rising from the sandy slope of the sea bed, through clouds of blood and silt, it pressed against Tziir's feet, then his fins, as the swarm forced him further back. With parasitic bodies lining every gap in his armour, his strength ebbing like the tide, the kabtaar looked upward through the blood, to where the sunlit surface undulated green and gold and crashed against the rock. His useless scythe waved not a head's width from the air.

Tziir's eyes glowed a brilliant white. The rock groaned and shifted all around him; he clenched his jaw, willing his strength to last, willing the stone to move, because if it didn't, this would be the last thing he ever tried. Cracks cobwebbed out below him, dislodging barnacles and seaweed. Through some curious extension of himself, he felt each split dig deeper, carving three separate hunks of rock from the ground. Trembling from the effort, the kabtaar snarled.

A solid lance of water burst from his bloated reserves, slamming into the swarm and hurling them away. Helpless in the current, their tiny bodies crunched together, claws flailing. The tail end of the group hit the first waves from behind, forcing them together into one sprawling, panicked mess of little scavengers.

His blood surged at the sight of them. Tziir swept his good scythe forward, the first boulder hurtling along the same arch and crashing through the parasites. They parted in a sudden flurry of movement, only for the second and third boulders to drop down on them from above. Body crunched against body crunched against stone. The kabtaar released another blast of water, driving the hulking lumps of rock and their trapped victims toward the ocean floor.

Exhaustion deadened Tziir's limbs. A blind swipe with one blade forced a few claws out from under his armour, but it was a futile gesture. The dislodged parasites swam nimbly out to the regrouping cloud of survivors. They floated in a half-crescent of grey shells and pearly eyes, claws clicking as they eyed the weakening kabutops expectantly.

'Rrriiith,' one trilled, and they drew further back, watching.

Tziir hadn't the strength to hiss in return. He drifted above the steep slope of the outcropping, buoyed by the current.

'Get off,' he said weakly against the water to one of the creatures still wedged under his armour.

Its eyes rolled up at him without the slightest glimpse of compassion, and its claws tore out a strip of his flesh. Prey. The kabutops kabtaar was prey. Tziir's eyes rolled in his head, nausea flooding through him at the thought.

A familiar, sandy-skinned arm locked around his useless elbow and pulled.

Rinaari's round features swam into view as Tziir broke the surface with her help, hope surging back through him at the sweet sting of air against his injuries. Water gushed from the slit in his third lid and the flat of his scythe groped and slipped on the rough stone as he fought for purchase.

'Raakin!' cried the shiraar, digging in her talons and hauling on Tziir's arm with all her might.

They weren't getting anywhere; the sea gripped the kabtaar with no intention of relinquishing him. He let out a growl as something stabbed at his tail, certain that it would be the first attack of many.

Siira crashed into the water beside him, looping one arm beneath the base of his fins. Her scythe screeched against his chest plate just as her head broke the surface by his shoulder, spitting out a mouthful of pink.

'Ready?' she snarled.

'Ready,' said Rinaari gravely.

All three kabutops heaved, scythes and talons scrabbling on rock as they hauled Tziir out of the ocean. His left foot slipped on seaweed, smashing his kneecap into the ground, but the kabtaar threw himself forward with the two females' strength right behind him. Sharp rock gouged his chest plates as he collapsed, gasping for air. His whole body throbbed.

Siira's muscles sang at the sight of him. Sick with fury, she sliced the writhing parasites from between the kabtaar's fins and along the seams of his armour, then whirled to strike at those stupid enough to try and follow the kabutops onto land. Lurching from the waves, they skittered over the rocks towards Tziir. The raakin killed them all, until blood ran from her feet and scythes. The waves broke in showers of pink foam against the kabutops' perch.

'They're falling back,' said Rinaari quietly from behind her, 'I think they're falling back.'

She was right. Siira caught a few last iridescent flashes of bulbous eyes through the water, but nothing else came onto land.

She began to shake. Her joints like jelly, she staggered to the others and fell to her knees. The kabtaar sprawled beside her, his body heaving with each wet, gulping gasp of breath. His right pupil followed Rinaari as she glanced over his wounds, but the second lid seemed stuck over the left, torn across the middle and steaming up until the whole eye turned milky white. Siira's stomach twisted all the more as she realised she was on Tziir's blind side. The first of the Bladesworn lay helpless, bleeding. She had never even seen him sit down to rest before.

'I can't believe we made it,' she said, her voice shrill and forced. 'I didn't think we were going to make it.'

The kabtaar offered no reply. She saw his good eye roll toward her, but the central arch of his helm blocked her from view.

'And then,' she continued, driven to fill the silence, 'And then I was out of the water, Kabtaar, and you weren't, and there was all this blood, and I thought you were going to die.' Her voice hitched on the last word; the despairing panic she had smothered deep in her chest seethed against her throat. 'I thought you might be dead too.'

'We should move,' said Rinaari. Siira saw her gaze shift.

'I'm not dead,' said Tziir to no-one in particular, his deep, once-reassuring voice faint and bewildered.

She watched his gaze follow Rinaari's, skimming over the bloodied rock with its torn shawl of seaweed. Though she tried to stop them, her eyes did the same. They traced the cracked, ancient curve of a drying scythe. Together, the three kabutops regarded the huddled bulk of Tmiirin Jakinzaa, turned on her side with her wooden ornaments tapping lightly against her motionless shell. Seawater dripped steadily from one upturned eye socket.

'No,' said Siira, wishing she could keep her mouth shut, just this once. The truth trickled out nevertheless. 'But she is.'


	8. The Noose in Place

**PLAGUE**  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

The Noose in Place

Like a bubble locked away in smooth stone, the spherical cave at Bladesworn Point shielded the scouting party from the blazing sun. It was only accessible from the sea, pressed into a crack in the cliff side. As water droplets rolled off her shell, Shaaca had to admit the swim had provided much-needed relief.

Inside it was cool and damp with sea spray. Water swelled and blossomed into roses of foam over an arc of coral spanning the one gap in the cave's rounded walls, each flex of the tide sending a distorting ripple across a clear central pool.

Raahn and Zetaahn slept soundly at the bottom, amongst a shifting crowd of discarded shells and fine white sand. Seated upon a natural shelf in the sweeping stone wall, the water lapping around her knees, Shaaca could see both quite clearly. The telniin could pass for a sea-worn stone with his legs curled up beneath the lip of his shell, but Zetaahn sprawled like a sunbathing grovyle. Ribbons of seaweed rolled against his outspread scythes, a school of remoraid darting about near his head.

The sight of them hollowed out an empty space in the aashnin's head where frustration should have been. On her own, she would have made the journey to the omastar's bay in a day. Unhindered by Zetaahn's injured crawl, she would have raced past Bladesworn Point without a second glance and been happier for it.

Not this time, not with those two at her side, but anger simply wouldn't come. Shaaca stared across the water, blank with exhaustion. A perfect circle cut in the ceiling cast a disc of light onto the the edge of the plunge pool, and through its glare she could almost see him. His rounded, sandy helm floated above the water just beyond the golden screen, peering upward at a moving point above the shelf.

'Call me Raakin, Delfiir.' Haakmin's words echoed back to Shaaca just as they had to the shiraar himself, eliciting a startled flinch at his own assertive tone. 'If that's alright,' he added more carefully.

Resting in the water at his side, twenty-five-year-old Shaaca saw his bare throat throb as he swallowed. Her gaze darted to young Tziir, barely half-grown but towering over them both as he stood on the sweeping stone. The delfiir eyed Haakmin curiously.

'Alright? Yes, certainly, if that's what you want.' His narrow scythes flexed absently at his sides. 'How did you discover your talent, if you don't mind my asking?'

Haakmin blinked, clearly as baffled by the older kabutops as Shaaca had been at first.

'My talent?' he asked.

'For fighting,' she supplied quickly, giving him what she hoped was an encouraging look when he glanced in her direction.

'It's not pressingly important for the time being,' said Tziir, when the newcomer seemed at a loss. 'But your case, your case is peculiar. It's an eye-opener. I hadn't even thought to consider it before, but what chance does someone born with a healer's skin have to do anything but heal?'

He began to pace as he talked, his blades gesticulating broadly with each additional revelation.

'The shiraari are sent straight to the shiraan as soon as they evolve. There's no time for them to so much as sharpen their scythes.'

Shaaca nudged Haakmin with her elbow.

'Don't worry,' she whispered, 'he'll remember you again soon.'

He peered at her sidelong, bemused.

'But here!' Tziir exclaimed suddenly, crouching level with Haakmin. 'Here, we have an example of a shiraar with fighting skills! Someone whose considerable talent could have been lost if he was forced into a particular role. You are a marvel.'

Haakmin frowned, a measure of confidence making itself known as he looked Tziir in the eye.

'But Delfiir,' he said, 'you haven't even seen me fight.'

Tziir eyed him quizzically, as though he had made a serious logical misstep.

'Do I need to?' he asked.

'If you think I'm that important as some kind of role-breaker, yes. Otherwise, how do you know I can fight at all?'

'Raakin Shaaca told me so,' the delfiir replied. 'I need no further proof. Now, I think in the name of equality we ought to...'

The aashnin's gaze focused ninety years forward to Zetaahn's twitching scythe as he muttered a stream of bubbles in his sleep. She blinked heavily. She no longer knew what to do with her memories of the Bladesworn. Once, not so very long ago, each one had filled her with an unerring sense of pride. Even the terrible things – creeping through the omastar's tunnels to splatter whole clutches of eggs up the walls – developed their own morbid worth when she remembered the way all three kabutops would come together. They were one another's support. How, she had been sure, could she feel anything _other _than pride after being part of a team like that?

But it had been sullied, hadn't it? In the six years after his death, Haakmin's ghost might have healed back into something she could think of fondly, but he was changing again now. Into what, she couldn't say. He filled her with unease.

And Tziir, Tziir was worse. He had been with her, with his blind faith and rambling speeches, for nearly a century. On the cliffside, three years after her evolution, while the raakinoi – the normal, brown-bodied, wingless raakinoi – duelled down on the beach, the tall, lanky delfiir had peered at her as she explained. _I'm not normal, don't you see?_ His sincere confusion had shown through the tilt of his head and his bemused tone. _Well, yes. You look exceptionally deadly. Is that a problem?_

No, she had come to realise, guided by his patient assertions and the odd burst of fierceness when she spoke too lowly of herself. No, neither her black, unbreakable armour nor her silver wings were problems. They made her deadly, as he had insisted. They made her the most dangerous warrior in the tribe. They made her into his helniin. For decades they worked together, king and commander, and the tribe prospered for it.

And then what? Nothing. Weeks in the shiraan, with Haakmin dead and Tziir absent. No explanation, no sign of him at all until his voice – deeper and slower and less wildly eccentric with age, but his voice all the same – pressed at her back.

'Shaaca.'

She'd whirled, so unabashedly relieved to have him with her he was instantly forgiven for the twelve-day wait. Words tumbled into her brain, bloodied with a desperation she would trust to no one else. '_Ziir, he's worse, I left him and he's worse, what can I do, what should I do. _But nothing left her mouth; he didn't give her the chance to speak.

'It's time to act. I need you to run ahead of the main force and ascertain the omastar's situation.'

She stared, uncomprehending. He must have come to help her, but she couldn't make the words fit. No matter how she twisted them, the syllables remained clipped and apathetic. And slowly it dawned on her, as her kabtaar spoke of scouting and war, that he didn't give a damn that Kognook was going to die.

At Bladesworn Point, Shaaca crumpled as shock had disallowed back in the shiraan. Limply she slumped forward, her blades slack on the stone shelf and her helmed head bowed toward her lap. Betrayal scoured her throat raw with each heaving sob. Her shoulders shook until her stiff joints burned. How could he? He had spared her not one moment of compassion, not one breath at her side. From the others, the raakinoi and the shiraari, she expected nothing. But Tziir she trusted. Even now, every wave of injured fury was capped with ardent, aching fondness.

_I love you,_ she thought suddenly, unbidden and aimless.

It crawled so weakly through the drowning clamour of her mind that she barely heard it herself. She grasped it, her sudden focus leaching strength from her tears, and moulded it in her mouth. Between shaky hiccoughs, she growled it out, sharp with hate.

'I love you.'

She sat and choked on the words until the circle of sunlight burned at the middle of the pool. All that ragged, alien emotion withdrew somewhere out of sight within her, leaving only a familiar headache in its wake. Dry-eyed, the aashnin stared into her lap, asleep in her head.

Something shifted in Shaaca's peripheral vision, something large enough to draw her into the present. Violet eyes raising slowly, she watched a grey, ovular creature slightly smaller than Raahn slip cautiously over the coral dam at the cave's mouth. A row of long, white and red fins undulated in turn along each side, allowing the newcomer to prod at its surroundings with long pincers. A predator, clearly, though not of her class. Shaaca turned her head away dismissively and looked back down into the pool.

Save for Raahn and Zetaahn, everything living was gone. Remoraid, staryu, krabby, horsea: all of them, hidden in an instant. The aashnin thrust her face under the water without a second thought. Her talons gripped the wall as she leant further out, and something brushed her calf.

'Friend Kabutops!' exclaimed a little voice as a remoraid's round eyes and silver scales materialised right beneath Shaaca's nose.

There was a clear question in the address. Shaaca gave an irritable hiss as the fish hovered safely just beneath the rim of her helm, darting in and out of sight too close to the kabutops' body for any untimely dicing.

'I just ate,' the aashnin ground out, her frown deepening as her attempts to locate the speaker revealed the pool's missing inhabitants, all cowering between her legs, 'and you're not my sort of snack.'

'Oh good.'

Remoraid darted boldly out into the open. Her scales showed no sign of head trauma, but as Shaaca flexed her scythes she didn't rule it out.

'I was wondering if you could do us all a tiny favour.'

'Is that so.' The kabutops eyed her darkly. 'Why would I help a little fish like you?'

The remoraid's gauzy fins twitched in the water, giving her a nervous jig. Her gaze flew between Shaaca and the clawed newcomer as she struggled for a convincing answer.

'Perhaps if you heard me out...' she tried.

'The flat fish over there scares you and you want me to finish him off,' Shaaca said coldly, 'but he's not my prey.'

Remoraid dipped slightly in the water, shooting the newcomer a disdainful glance. 'He's an anorith,' she said severely, as though that explained everything.

Shaaca raised her head, tilting her helm toward him.

'Why are they all afraid of you, then, Anorith?' she asked.

He froze in place, claws snapping sporadically. Both eye stalks swivelled up to stare at the enormous black kabutops.

'We eat everything,' he said simply. 'That is all.'

The aashnin watched him as he advanced slowly into the main pool, giving her a wide berth. His claws fumbled fretfully at pebbles and empty shells. He looked like a weedy little scavenger, regardless of the pincers. With a disinterested burst of bubbles, Shaaca sat up, water streaming from her helm, and leant back against the stone.

'Please, Kabutops.' Remoraid's tiny voice decayed further into a weedy whine from below the surface.

The aashnin raked the lip of the shelf with her scythe, sending a rain of pebbles down over Remoraid's cowering friends.

'If you're desperate for me to kill outside my needs,' she snapped, 'just offer me your belly. At least I could feed you to my kabuto.'

Her stomach tensed at her own poor choice of words, but Shaaca clenched her jaw and rode it out. She wasn't going to let this presumptuous, demanding fish see her at her weakest.

'No,' said Remoraid, 'Anorith are toxic, like tentacool. Kill him defensively.'

'You think he'd go for a kabutops.' Shaaca gave her an incredulous look.

'Maybe, when you're weak, or alone,' replied the fish, her saucer eyes glancing downward for a split second. 'Or asleep.'

Shaaca started forward sharply, gaze snapping down just in time to see Anorith's pincer find the upper swell of Raahn's shell. She crashed into the water, waves dashing up the walls and bursting into foam through the tiny skylight. The surge of current threw Anorith and the telniin apart, hurling Zetaahn up onto the shelf in a confused tangle of limbs, but the aashnin's blade sheared straight through the chaos. It sliced Anorith in half and cut deep into the floor.

'By the bloody... couldn't you have woken us up the _sane _way?' snarled Raahn, righting himself on the opposite side of the swirling pool and flitting back over effortlessly. She saw his eyes widen as he drew near. 'What was that, Shaaca?'

'An anorith,' she said, pulling her blade free.

The kabuto swam after the creature's severed abdomen as it whirled in the surging water. He kept easy pace with it, tapping at its flimsy grey carapace with his claws.

'I've seen one of those before,' said Zetaahn from the shelf.

He ducked his head to let a grounded remoraid slide back into the water. It darted over to its school, who were already settling back into the main pool as though Anorith had never been there at all.

'They live in deeper water, mostly,' said their speaker, hovering near the aashnin's shoulder, 'but they've been moving higher and higher.'

Zetaahn cocked his head to the side. 'Our kabuto stay a bit deeper than most of the tribe,' he told Remoraid. 'Before I evolved, I think I saw one or two of those anorith swimming around the ocean side of our shelf. In fact, you were there, Aashnin! Don't you remember?'

He looked over to Shaaca, who stared back wordlessly. She remembered. Though she refused to let him sleep with the group, Kognook had always insisted on visiting from time to time. She had watched the prowling anorith intently, never thinking they were dangerous but wanting them far away from her son nevertheless.

'One of them tried to come over,' Zetaahn recalled, 'but it swam away when you and Shiraar Hazaan got too close.' He scratched the side of his head against the cave wall. 'I wanted to meet it properly... but I evolved and never got the chance. And, uh, now this one's dead.'

Remoraid darted closer to him. 'He was going to eat your friend,' she said consolingly.

'Highly unlikely,' said Raahn. 'I am not easily defeated.'

'You were asleep,' said Shaaca, earning herself an irritated glance.

'And they can take down things like relicanth,' Remoraid added.

The aashnin eyed her sidelong. 'That _is_ stretching credibility.'

'In terms of defensive capacity,' said Raahn, 'relicanth are even stronger than us.'

'Well, it's the truth.' Remoraid darted higher in the water. 'He was injured down near the sea floor and drifted into the anorith's territory when he rose closer to the surface. Only three of them came after him at first, but they were quick and managed to hit him a few times. Then their friends turned up. They beat him and drove him up into the shallows to die. He told me so himself.'

All three kabu gave her disbelieving glances, Raahn's scathing, Shaaca's apathetic and Zetaahn's vaguely confused.

'Not to be rude,' said the raakin, 'but how does someone who's dead tell you how they died?'

'He wasn't dead yet,' she said irritably. 'They don't kill like you do. They battered him, poisoned him, and left him to float. They all followed at a distance, watching, then disappeared altogether when he reached the reef and there were places to hide. That's when I spoke with him. And when he died, they all came flying out and just tore him up. That's why we're all sheltering here. This place has always been safe.'

'Bladesworn Point,' clicked Raahn to Zetaahn. 'Smaller predators don't come here for fear of kabutops, so little prey have nothing to worry about. Still,' he continued, glaring at Remoraid, 'I'm unconvinced. Your relicanth likely died from the initial injury; they just hurried it along. We have nothing to worry about.'

'I want Zetaahn to sit on watch,' said Shaaca.

Expressionless, she returned their stares. Through the corner of her eye she spied Remoraid looking distinctly pleased with herself.

Raahn darted forward, spreading his front claws questioningly. 'Why, Aashnin? You don't believe this creature's story, surely?'

She eyed him silently for a few seconds, considering.

'No.'

'Then why?'

The defensive note was already in Raahn's tone, souring his words. Yes, he was the weak point that had made up her mind, but she was much too tired for one of his rants. She waved one scythe dismissively, settling down to sleep.

'The raakin needs practice.'

Zetaahn crouched eagerly on the edge of the shelf, beaming down at her through the water. Shaaca could feel Raahn's angry gaze on her shell as she looked up at the raakin.

'Are you willing, Zetaahn?'

He nodded eagerly, scythes flashing. 'I'll do my very best, Aashnin.'

Her limbs creaked as she folded them in, her scythes pressed back against her forearms. 'Good.'

'This is unnecessary,' grumbled Raahn as Shaaca closed her eyes.

'I don't think so,' said Remoraid, skimming back to her school. 'I think an anorith's poison can kill just about anything.'

The water pressed cool and comforting around the aashnin, soothing the endless aches that flared through her joints. Her mind emptied like the draining tide. Senses distorting, she barely heard Zetaahn's mumbled reply.

'Not us. We're kabutops.'

o o o

The kabtaar lay bleeding on the beach. Sand clung to his armour, grating between his chest plates with each heavy breath. With the sun searing his one good eye, everything around him took on a blueish hue: Shiraar Rinaari hurriedly flushing grit from his wounds; Siira returning to his side after fending off the tightening circle of curious raakinoi; and the last tmiirin sprawled lifeless near his head.

Even with the young warriors clustered close and watching, Tziir's gaze clung to Jakinzaa. He couldn't see her eyes. Already, her flesh folded in on itself beneath her armour. Like the cloudy membrane of a newly hatched egg, her skin stretched dry and fragile between each plate, sagging and wrinkling behind her shoulders and under her neck. Sand trickled through the cuts in her shell and her scythes, rusty with her blood.

Tziir's innards shifted as though floating in some new inner reservoir as Rinaari pressed the blunt joint of her scythe against his abdomen. His gaze jerked straight ahead at the unexpected pain, liquid dribbling from a narrow stab wound in his side. The sun seemed set to bake him in his armour. Through the thin slat of vision in his ruined left lid, he saw Siira's attention shift from Jakinzaa's broken body to his own oozing injuries.

'How are you feeling, Kabtaar?' she asked. For all her tendency to babble, her words came slowly, clear and subdued.

The raakinoi drew close behind her, the whole circle struggling to fit into Tziir's arch of vision as he turned his head to answer. The cluster shuffled and huffed as helmed faces were thrust over shoulders and between arms and bodies, their respectful silence merely serving to amplify the scraping of shells.

The sight of them struck him dumb for a few long seconds. Though he knew full well that others were scattered around the bay, going about their daily rituals oblivious to this little scene by the waterside, it dawned on the kabtaar that here stood his tribe: young, open, optimistic and brave. Time had tempered all three into steady, informed assurance in Tziir himself, but the raakinoi were not so unlike him. Just as he hadn't been so unlike Jakinzaa.

'I've had worse,' he said, speech loosening the metallic tang in his mouth. 'Save your grief for our good tmiirin; I have strength in me yet.'

Rinaari raised her head from a close inspection of the liquid seeping from his flank. 'It's just seawater, Kabtaar,' she reported firmly. 'None of these wounds would be fatal.'

Tziir sat up slowly, his eyes locking on Rinaari as the truth behind her careful wording sank in. Her grey eyes peered back, melancholy and mature beyond her three decades.

This insightful young kabutops would be one of the eldest left, he realised. The title of tmiirin, of elder, would be open to her even though it was usually reserved for kabu past their bicentenary. The age boundaries of their tribe drew closer around her neck – around the necks of every member – like a tightening noose, carrying all his responsibility with them.

Her blunt scythe touched his arm questioningly and, vaguely, the kabtaar nodded. A murmur of relief spread through the raakinoi, each as yet oblivious to the implications of his injury. They were better off that way. He needed them focused on the task at hand.

He had to think of this as a time limit, nothing more. A severe deadline. The tribe had to be ready when the scouting party returned. They had to crush the omastar once and for all in the next few days. The alternative condemned enthusiastic, talented youths like Rinaari and Siira to blight and death without the time to learn the skills that could save them. It called for the tribe to stumble, headless, to its final resting place. That couldn't happen. The plague had to die with Tziir.

His flesh buzzed with odd energy as the kabtaar surged to his feet. Startled, the raakinoi tried desperately to pull apart, scythes catching on armour and heads jerking free of the crooks of their friends' arms as they struggled to form ranks. They stood at attention in disarray, Siira standing proud but curious at their head, and watched their leader intently. At the back, someone toppled sideways into their neighbour and nearly sent both to the ground.

They weren't his djirnoi and delfiiri. When he ceased to compare them with their fully-trained, battle-hardened counterparts, however, he could see the same loyalty in them, the same enthusiasm. He grinned savagely, eliciting a disconcerted wave of hesitant, hopeful looks from their untried faces. They were still his tribe, and they could still stop this plague.

'Shiraar Rinaari?'

She stood sharply at his elbow, her gaze flicking to his open wound for a split-second.

'Yes, my kabtaar.'

'You suggested our plague-stricken survive longer with full-time supervision.'

'Yes, my kabtaar.'

He looked back to the raakinoi, who attempted to stand even taller than before, their shielded heads tipped back.

'You.' He indicated half of them with a slice and sweep of his scythe, suppressing the tremble in the blade. 'Head to my cave. I want as many extra ka'aan created there as possible. Be smart. The shiraari will need space to stand. Go.'

The chosen few tore away from the rest of the group, darting up the beach toward the carved path ascending the cliff to the kabtaar's cavern. The remainder blinked in the resulting rain of sand, uncomprehending.

'My kabtaar,' said Rinaari out of turn, her question pressing behind his honorific.

'The creatures that killed Tmiirin Jakinzaa came from the sea, and they came onto land in pursuit of us,' Tziir told the group. 'They might do so again to attack our wounded in the shiraan; it is the last place left where we dwell at the water's edge, after all. We cannot allow that possibility to remain. The tribe will move further up the beach, with the wounded residing at the highest point of all: in my cave.'

He paused, watching as the raakinoi exchanged glances at this news. Some looked surprised, others wary. Tziir lowered his head until the full spread of his helm met their gazes.

'You are all worthy fighters,' he said. 'Together we will show the omastar just how misguided they were to think a disease could stop the might of our scythes. We will crush them into the mud in that cesspit they call a bay, and when we are done with them we will return and we will crush these belligerent little parasites too. We will avenge Tmiirin Jakinzaa and every other kabutops they may have hurt in the past. We will remind them why no one strikes us and lives.'

The kabtaar let out a derisive snort and straightened up out of the crouch his words had slowly goaded him into, blood dribbling down his leg.

'But enough. You all know what happens to enemies of the kabutops.' Tziir made another sharp gesture with his scythe, indicating the bulk of the group. 'You. Head to the shiraan. Inform the shiraari of my plans and escort them and the afflicted to their new residence as soon as they are ready. Make haste.'

With a few enthusiastic bobs of their heads, the raakinoi departed. Siira and Rinaari were the only ones left.

'Should I be-' the raakin started.

'Siira,' he said, cutting her off.

His voice maintained the harsh, demanding tone of his previous speech. Flustered, the raakin snapped her mouth shut, ducking her head self-consciously. Tziir paused, consciously replacing anger with pride before he continued, though he couldn't quite chase the underlying tension from his words.

'Delfiir.'

Siira looked up sharply, eyes wide.

'You proved yourself today,' the kabtaar told her. 'You were sharp and insightful. You showed no fear in the face of real combat. You followed orders impeccably, yet acted under your own instruction with equal competence.

'You are wholly deserving of your new title. And now that you have it, I wish to delegate some control over the raakinoi to you. Specifically, I want you to devise a guard rota so that the sick are watched over at all times. The shiraari are overworked and undoubtedly in need of respite; they can rest more deeply on the understanding that the raakinoi will wake them should the state of their charges change in any way.'

'I will be able to provide assistance in explaining all this to the shiraari,' said Rinaari slowly. 'They will be grateful, Kabtaar.'

He bowed his head to her. 'Thank you, Shiraar. Delfiir-'

'Thank you,' Siira blurted.

Both kabtaar and shiraar started at the raw anguish in the new delfiir's voice. She stared at Tziir, making no attempt to disguise her distress.

'Thank you for my title,' she said, voice wavering. Her scythes tensed at her sides. 'And thank you even more for... for surviving.'

Tziir struggled for an adequate reply and found nothing. Speechless, he wished he could simply accept the thanks, perhaps even force some humour in the aftermath of their ordeal. But it would be a lie. He swallowed back the unwelcome taste of fear and held her gaze.

'I was just... wondering if I might ask one thing of you,' Siira continued, 'before I go about my duties.'

Her gaze slipped tellingly to Jakinzaa, still staring sightlessly at the cloudless sky.

'Can't we do something for her?' she begged. 'We can't leave her for the birds or for... the things in the sea.'

'We can bury her,' said Tziir, covering his nerves with the familiar weight of his own resolve.

Rinaari sliced the air sharply, shaking her head. 'Kabtaar, I can't allow you to do that.'

He looked down at the shiraar. She barely reached his elbow in height, but she frowned up disapprovingly nevertheless. The sun pitched down on all three of them, their armour creaking in the heat. Rinaari was probably right. He still felt light-headed and weak. But that would only get worse in time.

'It must be done,' he told her.

He and Siira angled their scythes and began to dig.


	9. Rage, Rank and Repercussions

**PLAGUE**  
>by Obsidian Blade<p>

Rage, Rank and Repercussions

They were well into the hottest hours of the afternoon by the time the raakinoi had finished the new ka'aan. The train of shiraari, their patients and their young guards sweltered as they trudged from the shiraan to the kabtaar's cave. Hurrying down toward them, Siira would have been miserable even without the painful cycle her thoughts fumbled through.

Delfiir. That was her title now. She was the only one in the whole tribe to wear it. Just the thought of Tziir's words to her –_ you are sharp, insightful, wholly deserving_ – sent a thrill of success through her.

But then his voice changed, weakened, and all she could think of was his clear disbelief as he announced he was still alive. It put her heart in her mouth. Tziir could be injured, she knew now. Tziir could even be killed. She sickened at the thought; this was the element of being a 'real kabutops' she hadn't absorbed before. This was the part she had never thought about.

She had to now. Her own personal legend lay under the sand: Jakinzaa, whom she had visited with casual, arrogant infrequency whenever she felt the need for a story. It only occurred to her now that the tmiirin must have had a tale of her own. When Jakinzaa had been alive, Siira had never thought to ask.

Her mind's dogged circling of the two shouldn't have been a surprise. Along with Zetaahn and a few of the other raakinoi, Tziir and Jakinzaa were major parts of Siira's life. Perhaps they had largely been towering figures of the past rather than friends, but that didn't change the way her thoughts kept dancing back to them, then and now. She couldn't stop them. She just had to get used to it: temper the surges of concern, fear and regret with memories of the two kabutops' strength and good character.

The delfiir set her jaw. She had new responsibilities, anyway. She needed to focus on those, for the good of the tribe.

'Shiraar Rinaari!' she called.

The short female stood to one side of the stumbling column, beside a thinner shiraar with long, narrow scythes. Both healers glanced up at her shout, one cool-eyed but tense, the other openly frustrated.

'Delfiir,' said Rinaari smoothly as Siira reached them. 'Our head shiraar and I were just discussing _the kabtaar's_ proposed arrangements. Shiraar Zehiir is not entirely pleased.'

'Oh,' said Siira, 'Well, I'd be happy to-'

'My concerns need to be addressed by the appropriate authority,' Zehiir interrupted sharply, giving Siira a disapproving glare.

She blinked, taken aback, and groped for the deliberate assertiveness of their kabtaar. Before she could so much as open her mouth, however, Rinaari stepped in, her grey eyes flashing.

'As I have already told you, Delfiir Siira has been appointed as that appropriate authority.'

'Forgive me, but until I have heard it from someone a little older than thirty-'

'The kabtaar is injured!' the little shiraar snapped. 'Shall I go rouse him to deal with your rock-headed refusal to accept his ruling, or do you want to address this to the aashnin? She should be back any time now, and you seemed to get along so well before.'

Zehiir puffed up like an angry quilfish, scowling in pompous disbelief.

'Shiraar Rinaari, I am your superior and-'

'You are also wrong.'

Siira blinked at the edge in Rinaari's voice, taking an inadvertent step back from the quarrelling healers. She went to raise a scythe to intervene, but the intensity of Zehiir's retort curbed the gesture into a pathetic little wave.

'Wrong? When Kabtaar Tziir takes the raakinoi to war the shiraari will be left to look after the wounded alone. That means we will _not_ be able to watch over them all the time without utterly exhausting ourselves!'

'So we exhaust ourselves!' cried Rinaari, her blades crossing and uncrossing fervently. 'The offensive will take two days, maybe three, and then our warriors will be back, the plague will be gone, and everyone we have sustained will be free.'

'Working through the midday heat may well leave us all incapable on the first day, never mind the second. Look around you! See how everyone is struggling _right now._ If the offensive fails, we won't be able to treat the injured survivors!'

'If the offensive fails, we will all die anyway!'

The raakinoi had been eavesdropping surreptitiously. Now the line came to a halt, all eyes fixed on Rinaari.

'Fantastically executed,' said Zehiir dryly.

Siira swallowed as the raakinoi began to murmur amongst themselves, glancing between Rinaari and the unconscious plague sufferers they carried across their shoulders.

'So,' the delfiir tried loudly, 'there's, there's nothing to worry about, because the offensive is going to do fine! The omastar, they're going to wish they never even thought of the plague! Hah!'

She brandished a scythe skyward and was rewarded with a distinctly uninspired row of stares. On the plus side, she thought doggedly, they were probably too busy inwardly mocking her to focus on Rinaari's doomsaying.

'The kabtaar's spokesperson,' said Zehiir grandly, before his voice turned sour. 'It seems you lack the kabtaar's voice.'

Siira resisted the urge to bury her head in the sand through sheer willpower alone. She shot Zehiir a look that stumbled short of nasty and tripped into sullen.

'That was my mistake,' said Rinaari. She kept her volume low this time, but her conviction remained loud as ever. 'I went too far. But this is a simple matter, Zehiir. Either you obey your kabtaar or you don't.'

The head shiraar gave her a hard look, his chin raised imperiously. Turning sharply on his heel, he strode away toward the front of the line, where he ducked his shoulders under the dragging arm of a struggling patient and helped him up the hill. The two females watched him go.

'Don't worry,' said Rinaari, as Siira frowned. 'He won't do anything to contradict the kabtaar's orders, even if he's trying to pretend he never heard them. Authority scares him.'

The delfiir gave her a sidelong glance. 'But you're not afraid at all, right?'

Rinaari paused, then betrayed the slightest self-satisfied smirk. 'Just because someone wears a title does not mean they necessarily deserve it.'

They studied each other curiously for a few long seconds. It was odd. Rinaari was only a shiraar, but Siira found herself wanting the smaller kabutops' approval. She raised her chin slightly, ready for any judgement, even one as derisively voiced as the attack on Zehiir.

But Rinaari looked away, ducking her head slightly.

'The kabtaar sent me to find you,' she said. 'He needs us in the shiraan before we retire for the afternoon. Something about...'

She trailed off, gaze shifting to the passing kabutops.

'Excuse me.'

Moving swiftly, she descended upon two raakinoi and the larger kabutops they held between him. The injured kabu was tall and broadly built for his generation, with heavy brown armour that carried a distinct reddish tinge. As Siira drew closer, trotting after Rinaari, she saw a stream of blood running down the inside of his right leg and off his dragging claws.

'Stop!' she ordered the raakinoi, who seemed all too happy to postpone their difficult stumble up the beach.

'Set him down,' Rinaari insisted. She knelt in the sand beside the bleeding kabutops as they stretched him out on his front. 'This should have been treated before anyone tried to move him.'

Her blunt scythes softened the tilt of her patient's head, brushing sand from long burns across the sweep of his helm. Siira stooped closer as the shiraar shifted her focus to his back, where an open crack ran across the base of one fin.

'All I can do is pack it shut for now,' Rinaari said irritably, scooping dry sand onto one scythe and wetting it with spit. 'Make sure you tell the shiraari at the top that he needs seeing to, is that clear?'

The two raakinoi nodded obediently in Siira's peripheral vision.

'This is Raakin Kaziir,' she said.

'Good,' said Rinaari. 'Specify that, then. There's a small chance a healer will know him by name.'

Good, _good?_ Siira echoed internally, horrified. This could never, ever be good.

'I thought his wounds were only superficial,' she blurted. 'Why is he still sick?'

Rinaari glanced up from her work, frowning at the delfiir. Kaziir's fin was already sealed off with sand, the flow of blood temporarily abated. She tapped a quick dismissal to the raakinoi, who hauled him up by the arms and continued their caveward traipse.

'His armour shattered into the flesh,' said the shiraar slowly, 'so the wound was worse than it looked. But I don't think I really need to answer your question. Do I?'

Siira blinked at her, her stomach like stone.

'It strikes the injured, Delfiir. The raakin's heroics fighting off that carnivine could not change that.' She glanced down toward the sea, sweeping a scythe through the air. 'Let's move on. The sooner we reach the kabtaar, the sooner he can rest.'

The delfiir's innards twisted as she followed Rinaari. Since the fight with Niva, she hadn't thought of Kaziir once. Though no, that was untrue. When the raakinoi gathered to see Zetaahn off, she had peered through the crowd, hoping to give the tall raakin a self-satisfied glare_._ She hadn't cared whether he would even see it; gloating to herself was her only aim. She and Zetaahn had won, despite Kaziir's blundering intervention.

Siira swallowed. In hindsight, his actions had been heroic. He hadn't known the fight was a sham; he'd thrown himself into it believing in the danger. She should have been thankful. She should have been concerned.

o o o

Tziir's right scythe had taken to disappearing. Hunched over in the shiraan, he observed the phenomenon with a degree of apathy he knew was down to sheer exhaustion. He swung his head to look into the ka'aan he had just filled, and the blade swam back into being. He tried to look at it directly, and it faded out immediately. His torn lid was limiting enough; with his eyesight blurring in the other eye, he was almost blind.

There was nothing he could do but press on. Awkwardly he nudged a few palm fronds into place over the ka'aan's glassy surface, watching as best he could through his peripheral vision. His head ached like an open wound left out in the sun. What he needed was some time to rest – just a few minutes, or an hour, or an afternoon, or a week...

'Kabtaar Tziir.'

Rinaari's voice. Careful to mask his weakness, Tziir adopted his usual stance and nodded curtly as the shiraar stepped around the standing stones, Delfiir Siira at her heels. He felt the sweat running along the rifts between his armour plates, hoped they couldn't see it.

'Siira. Rinaari,' he said. A formal greeting seemed like an enormous effort, so he skipped it altogether. 'I apologise for keeping you in the sun even longer. But this is important. We need to ascertain whether the shiraan is really under threat. The offensive will add new wounded to the sick already in my cave. That cave won't house them all.'

'But if the offensive cures the plague-' said Rinaari.

'We will prepare for either eventuality.'

'But everyone's already been moved, Kabtaar.'

'Yes. On minimal evidence. I know.'

Tziir rubbed his ruined lid with the knuckle of his scythe. He couldn't even try to make eye contact with the shiraar; his gaze drifted to the ka'aan, and he frowned vaguely at the sun's reflection on the water.

'I would never relegate what transpired today to as dismissive a tag as minimal evidence, Kabtaar,' said Rinaari, 'but I do think that the effort involved-'

'May I cut you short?' he interrupted.

That direct sunlight was sharp; it cut through the haze of his left lid, painful against the retina beneath but reassuring somehow. He could still see. It was just a matter of removing the obstacle.

'Imagine the chaos had those creatures struck the shiraan with every patient here,' he said. 'That image should be enough to halt your doubt.'

The little shiraar neither retorted nor withdrew. For a second she stood in silence, digesting his statement.

'Indeed, Kabtaar,' she said, calm and accepting.

Tziir forced himself to raise his head for her. Showing the flats of his blades in appreciation, he looked at them both, aiming his gaze over their shoulders so as to see their faces. Though Rinaari stood with her head raised, a paragon of confidence, the new delfiir seemed unable to focus. Her scythes crossed awkwardly at her knees and her eyes darted around listlessly. His chest constricted at the thought of extending her day even further, but dispersing to rest wasn't an option. The scouting party could be back at any time now; when they woke in the evening, there was every chance they would be marching to war.

So he gestured to the ka'aan and bit back words of comfort.

'Those creatures were low-slung,' he said. 'Without moving close, they won't be able to tell if a ka'aan set up for midday actually houses a patient. Thus, this is all the bait we should need. We will hide ourselves in the Shiraan Rift and take turns on watch. If we see even one of them on land, the shiraan will be deemed unsafe.'

It was an imprecise system and he could see that Rinaari knew it. She kept her scythes stock-still at her sides in an attempt to hide her scepticism, but the lack of movement was telling enough. Tziir didn't blame her. He wasn't especially convinced himself.

'Kabtaar,' said Siira.

He looked up sharply at the unexpected sound of her voice and immediately regretted it. Pain cut through his head, and the disc of blindness at the centre of his vision flashed blue and black. He couldn't stop himself from wincing, but did his best to disguise the movement as a nod.

'What is the Shiraan Rift?'

'It's where the shiraari rest,' Rinaari replied quickly. 'A horizontal split in the cliff, cut for us by the djirnoi half a century ago, I believe. I'll show you,' she continued, 'but Kabtaar, I believe there may be a minor problem with your plan.'

The problem proved to be the opposite of minor and, embarrassingly, had everything to do with Tziir himself. Where the standing stones met the craggy wall of the cliff, a few wide, flat rocks had been piled to act as a step. A metre above yawned a long, horizontal fissure that, according to Rinaari, extended far enough back into the cliff to house all of the shiraari at once.

The kabtaar had to take her at her word. There was no way he could ever check it for himself. Like all the warriors of his generation, Tziir dwarfed the younger members of the tribe, and his plated body would never fit inside. His helm alone was too broad to pass the rift's low opening. Even Siira had struggled to squeeze her way through, and she barely reached his chest in height.

'Perhaps if you ducked your head back against your shoulders,' she suggested, leaning out of the rift to peer down at him.

From Tziir's perspective, she and Rinaari looked like disembodied heads floating well above him. It would have been amusing if he hadn't felt so desolate. He crossed his scythes in veto.

'Then,' Siira said, 'I could go and fetch another raakin to take your place.'

Again, the kabtaar's scythes slithered across one another and apart. Shoulders sloping, migraine building, he said, 'There's no need. The answer is obvious.'

'I don't like it,' said Rinaari.

He gave a defeated hah. 'Neither do I.'

'Then don't do it, Kabtaar,' said the shiraar, leaning further out of the rift to touch the arch of his helm with the blunt tip of one scythe. 'You haven't the strength. It's too much of a risk.'

Tziir was just too tired. Too tired to improvise, too tired to compromise, too tired to argue. Rinaari's objections glanced against his fins as he sloped over to the ka'aan and squatted at its side, parting the veil of foliage floating on the surface before stepping in. Already lukewarm in the relentless sunlight, the water lapped around his knees.

'Delfiir Siira and I will take the first watch,' he said, looking up at the younger kabutops.

'Kabtaar,' said Rinaari.

Tziir drew a long breath. He met her glare with a wearily resolute look of his own.

'Shiraar,' he said flatly.

Fury brewed in her grey eyes as Rinaari held the wretched remains of his gaze. He saw her helm dip tellingly as she bit back her words. Soundlessly, she turned and disappeared into the darkness at the back of the rift. Siira glanced after her, and in the brief instant when no eyes were on him, Tziir lowered himself deeper into the pool.

He hadn't filled his ka'aan in months. He had been too busy. He hadn't felt the press of still water against his flesh, pleasantly cool, or languid roll of each ripple over his sun-seared fins for so long he'd forgotten how _good_ it all felt. It was a damn good thing and all, he thought as he sat back against the side, because the wait made them that much better, and he needed all the comfort he could get. If it wasn't for the sun beating down on his exposed helm, Tziir could even pretend his headache was waning.

'Tziir?' Siira said quietly.

He tilted his head until he could see her smooth face in the gap between the blurring and the blindness.

'I'm going to be very awake,' said the delfiir. 'I just thought the sun must be hot down there and you must be tired, so if you want to submerge properly, I can keep an eye out.'

She sounded as subdued as he felt, but she watched him for a reply with loyal concern. Part of him instinctively wished to object. He was the kabtaar, and one of the djirnoi class of warriors: the very best. He was– Bladesworn. The idea that he lacked the strength to last one turn on watch was unheard of.

But true. There was no point in denying it. Hollow-chested, he ducked his head slowly in thanks.

'I appreciate it, Siira,' he said. 'I won't stay down for long.'

As soon as his head dipped beneath the surface, Tziir knew it would be hard to keep to his word. The feverish, burning throb of his brain became an audible thrum underwater: still painful, but with the heat dispersing steadily through his eyes and into the liquid. He opened his mouth and drew in the water, enjoying the light tickle as it soothed his ragged gills. As he cooled, the blind patch in his right eye began to fade, showing glimpses of the world through each diminishing flash of colour. Relief kneaded away the knots in his muscles, and Tziir tilted back his head.

He had no intention of falling asleep, but time distorted as though he'd drifted off anyway. The only indication that he'd been down for so long came when he stirred the plants on the surface with the tip of one scythe. Bars of gold slipped across his chestplate, swirling into stars and shattering into diamonds as the fern fronds spun in the idle eddies. As he watched them he became slowly aware of the angle of the light and, disbelieving, raised his gaze to the surface. It was certainly darkening out there.

Reluctantly, Tziir raised his head from the water. The shadows of the standing stones had stretched so long they brushed the edge of his ka'aan, though the sun remained high enough that the kabutops would still be sleeping, were this a normal day.

'Kabtaar?' said Siira from somewhere above.

He drew in a slow breath to flush the water from his throat.

'I'm fine, Delfiir,' he said vaguely, glancing toward the Shiraan Rift.

Through the narrow crack in the cliff face he could just make out the flat of Rinaari's helm, lowered to the ground in clear indication of sleep. Siira, however, sprawled forward on her belly, her head propped up on the knuckles of her scythes. He went to thank her for her attentiveness when her blue eyes met his, furtive.

'I know,' she said. 'I just... I needed to ask something.'

Bemused, he nodded for her to proceed.

'I was wondering. Does the plague really strike all the wounded?' She lowered her head slightly, scratching at the lip of the cave with her scythes, and missed Tziir's inadvertent twitch. 'Perhaps some kabu are only badly hurt, and need more time to rest.'

Her eyes met his again, hopeful, but all he could do was stare. While his brief reprieve had pushed some of the pain out of his head, it only left space for everything else to file back in: Kognook, Shaaca, Jakinzaa, the tribe, his injury. He had so little time, too little time, and most of the damage he wanted to stop was already irrevocably done.

He forced his eyes shut, steadying himself, and held a breath in his lungs until he knew his voice would be firm.

'I'm afraid we've no reason to presume that is the case, Delfiir.'

'Can I talk to you, then?' asked Siira.

On the edge of her admission, she squirmed beside the slumbering shiraar. She didn't know what to make of the kabtaar's pauses, or the hollow tone in his voice. She wasn't sure how to help him, or even if he needed help: he was the kabtaar, he wasn't the one blundering from problem to problem like herself and Zetaahn.

'I'd go to Tmiirin Jakinzaa usually, but...'

She trailed off, watching the kabtar hesitantly. His broad head lolled against the stones encircling the ka'aan, both eyes shut. One scythe skittered over the surface of the water in a jerky permissive gesture. Siira flexed her own blades against the cliff, preparing herself.

'I saw Kaziir when they were moving him,' she said. 'I'd forgotten he was hurt.'

'Too relieved that your own life was saved,' Tziir said distantly.

It was the sort of simple statement Jakinzaa had always given, but the tmiirin's voice always held enough warmth to show she sympathised. Bleached also of his usual vigour, Tziir's words seemed flat and neutral. She swallowed.

'No. I don't have that excuse.'

Tziir made no reply. She rolled onto her back, digging her talons into the ceiling, and closed her eyes.

'It was my fault.'

'No, Delfiir,' said Tziir immediately. 'No-one could have anticipated Niva's sudden turn.'

'I did.'

She heard him shift in the water, and his tone was softer as he said, 'Delfiir-'

'I know because I caused it,' she said quietly, but with such force behind each syllable she barely recognised her own voice.

Slowly, her eyes burning, she rolled back onto her side and stared down at the kabtaar. He turned too, sitting up in the water to regard her silently. She could see the slight tremble in his limbs just as clearly as the concerned wrinkle in the flesh around his eyes.

'Kabtaar, Zetaahn really wanted to go on the scouting trip,' she said, hurrying through her words. 'And I thought, I thought you'd send him if he had a chance to prove himself.'

Any sense of the kabtaar floating off in his own little world was long gone. His gaze was intelligent as always, irrespective of the ruined left lid. He leant forward as he spoke.

'You risked your life to show me he was the best choice?'

Siira's voice was almost gone, squeaking from her throat, but her tongue lashed it on nevertheless. 'No, I- The idea was that Niva would just shake me a bit and Zetaahn would slash at her and she would drop me and run. She wasn't trying to kill me. I'd asked her to help me stage the whole thing; I never expected Kaziir to intervene.'

She didn't dare look at him, even as an ugly silence built between them. She didn't want to risk glimpsing hate and betrayal in his expression, even though a lifetime of kindly parents and benevolent elders had taught her well enough that no-one would _really_ look at her like that outside her imagination.

'No,' said the kabtaar quietly.

Siira half looked up: a sharp, halting movement of her head that left her gaze stranded just outside the ring of stones around the kabtaar's ka'aan. Hesitantly, her eyes made the final trek, peering at him from under the ridge of her shell. Tziir's expression was cold.

'No, you expected your peers to be too incompetent or too apathetic to save you,' he said.

Her stomach began to drop.

'Zetaahn was not to prove himself, you were to trick the tribe. And you expected me to be easily duped.'

'Kabtaar.'

'Now Zetaahn is on his way, Niva is dead and Kaziir set to die.'

'Please don't say that.'

'But the truth doesn't seem to speak loudly enough without my voice behind it,' said Tziir, his good eye flashing. 'I recall you had forgotten it altogether, until Kaziir's state thrust it back into your sphere of interest.'

Siira felt set to wither up and die; she had panicked many times before, but this pounding in her chest was something different altogether.

'You're making me feel terrible,' she whispered.

The kabtaar rose fully from the water, his expression set like granite.

'If my words are touching you at all, Siira, it's because you hadn't truly engaged with the repercussions of your work.' He sighed. 'How can you deal with any of this while sitting ignorant?'

'I thought you would help me!' she cried. 'What do I do about it, Kabtaar? Is there anything I _can_ do?'

Tziir paused. Though his limbs still quaked, he watched her steadily. Siira's stomach rolled, but her breath slowed and she swallowed thickly, calming just enough to keep from jumping down to pace.

'Please tell me, Tziir,' she said.

'Who remains, Siira?' he asked, his voice back to its low, even pitch.

She wasn't sure what he meant. Folding and stretching her scythes nervously, she said, 'Zetaahn.'

The kabtaar crossed his blades. 'Zetaahn is far from here, and the aashnin's charge now. Who remains?'

'Me,' she said, then: 'Kaziir. But I'm not a healer, I can't cure-'

Revelation swept over her. No healer _could_ cure the plague, that was the point. For all her tactlessness earlier, Rinaari had been right: the kabutops' survival depended on the success of their warriors. Defeating the omastar was the only way to beat back the sickness and save Kaziir.

'The offensive,' she said, breathless with relief. 'I save him with the offensive.'

'Delfiir.' Tziir's voice was steely once again. 'You must speak with him.'

She froze, the start of a smile fading away.

'Now?' she asked. 'While he's still sick?'

The kabtaar nodded, and she struggled to find the reason why. Her mind ran over his earlier words, about ignorance and engaging with the reality of her actions.

'You want me to tell him the truth,' she said. 'Then I'll have faced it. I won't have to worry about him dying for a lie. That's brilliant!'

'No.'

Again, Tziir's voice cut through her rising relief, sharp with his conviction. Flat brutality and his brief return to relative calm were long gone. She started at the change.

'You are not the one dying,' he said. 'Your feelings have already doomed him once. His take precedence now.'

'But... he might die without knowing the truth,' she persisted.

'And what makes your truth more important than his?'

When she stared, uncomprehending, he continued.

'Raakin Kaziir gave his life for you,' said the kabtaar. 'Tell me how anything matters more than that.'

'I thought knowing what really happened would.'

Tziir's expression only hardened at her words. He swatted at the air irritably, kneeling back down in the ka'aan.

'Why did you tell me any of this, Siira? Do you want me to forgive you, so your conscience sits clear?'

'I want to,' she started, but no grand purpose leapt to mind, only the fading certainty that every problem became easy to overcome as soon as she'd passed it to someone else. But that sounded so selfish – that couldn't be the only reason. She was better than that. 'I want to...'

'Tell me your decision was incorrect? That I shouldn't expect the scouting party back at all, having sent Zetaahn?' Tziir's eyes were on her again, and she saw something beyond his relentless slant: angry desperation.

'No!' she snarled back nevertheless, rallying for Zetaahn as she couldn't for herself. 'He was the best raakin to send. I know that, at least. I'm sure of it. He's one of the strongest and he has ambition, ambition the others don't. The sort of ambition that makes you succeed.'

'Then what is it, Delfiir?' asked the kabtaar. 'If not your atonement and if not a word of warning, what?'

'I want to...'

She thought of Kaziir hanging unconscious between his bearers, his whole body slack, as though he was already dead.

'I want to help Kaziir,' she said.

'Then you must go to him.'

The image twisted into the memory of the other raakin's blood splattering across the sand as Niva struck him. Kaziir screamed, struggling to escape, and the grass type forced him down. All while Siira was only a few scythes away, hesitating.

'I can't!' she cried, starting up and cracking her head on the ceiling of the rift. She collapsed in surprise, but her tirade continued. 'He's dying because of me. Why would he want to see me at all? He won't! He'll hate me! He'll hate at me.'

'Then you will bear it,' said Tziir. 'Don't you think you owe him that much?'

'If he hadn't screwed up the plan-' she said bitterly.

'Delfiir!'

She ducked away from the edge, back in the rift where he couldn't follow her, and curled up. It had to be Kaziir's fault; if it wasn't, that made it-

A pair of grey eyes regarded her through the gloom. Rinaari was still lying down, but from the intensity of her glare, it was clear she had been awake long enough.

'Rinaari,' said Siira, as the blame finally settled into her bones, 'I didn't mean to hurt him.'

'Clearly, _delfiir,_' said the shiraar, 'and it seems your utter selflessness continues to this very moment.'

'I'm sorry,' Siira said, curving her body away from Rinaari and, in doing so, pushing her head back to the edge, 'I didn't mean to say that. It wasn't what I meant...'

Slowly, she processed the scene below. The kabtaar's attention was still trained on her. He stood half in and half out of the ka'aan, the talons of his right foot digging into the dry floor of the shiraan, the left hidden beneath the water. The parasites crowded every gap in the standing stones, watching him through their glassy eyes. Their claws opened and shut slowly, silently, more of an idle twitch than an attempt to be threatening. They stood still as rock.

This time, she did not delay. Siira sprang from the rift, landing heavily beside Tziir and swiftly bending into a defensive stance. For a split second the kabtaar moved as though expecting her to attack him, but she heard his vengeful hiss as he spied the creatures, and his stance shifted appropriately.

'By the Bladesworn,' said Rinaari from the rift, 'they're all around you.'

'But making no move to attack,' said Siira. 'I'm not sure how long they were there...'

'No,' said the shiraar, 'too distracted.'

The threat all around them muffled Rinaari's barb somewhat, but Siira glanced up at her for a split-second anyway. The healer wasn't even looking at her; she leapt awkwardly from the rift to the top of a nearby standing stone. Her talons scrabbled at the rock for purchase before she settled herself, birdlike, at the peak.

'They're on the other side as well,' she reported, 'mostly by the sea. The path looks clear.'

'But they could still be in the water,' said Siira.

She looked to the kabtaar for a plan just as the larger kabutops stepped forward toward the parasites. His colossal helm held defensively low, scythes at the ready, he advanced sideways like a krabby, each step slow and cautious.

'Kabtaar-' she started.

'Stay where you are,' he said. 'They haven't hurt you yet.'

His flawed logic wasn't what stopped Siira from following Tziir. It was the sight of their enemies, slowly edging away from the kabtaar as he stepped toward them. This wasn't a retreat; they weren't racing for the safety of the water. It reminded her more of the behaviour of a defensive duellist, maintaining a calculated distance between scythe and foe.

'They're waiting for something,' she said aloud.

Tziir lashed out suddenly with his right blade: not a proper strike, as that would leave him fully extended and vulnerable, but enough to send the closest parasites skittering out of the way. They hurried straight back to their original positions as soon as the kabtaar's scythe returned to his side.

'Ri-riiiiith,' one trilled.

A dozen voices rose in reply, chirping and growling, as tiny claws opened and shut and eyes waved on stalks. Siira moved to Tziir's flank, delivering a warning slash toward the first monster to speak, and the group shifted further away again, all eyes on her. The kabtaar's elbow clipped her shoulder.

'To the path,' he said, 'slowly.'

Together they stepped backward, scythes twitching to ward off their foes, until they were level with Rinaari's stone.

'The water still looks clear,' she said.

'Delfiir,' said Tziir, 'go first. Shiraar, follow on right behind her.'

Leaving the kabtaar to face down even this fraction of the full swarm put an angry hiss in Siira's throat. She aimed it at the creatures, wishing they would run at the sound, but forced herself to turn about when they failed to react. The path back to the bay looked thinner than ever as she looked on it now, barely wide enough to admit a single kabutops. Though the tide wasn't fully in, the water lapped at the stone a mere half-scythe down, and the more powerful flurries sent foam plumes up onto the rock. Who knew how high the parasites could jump.

Blades ready, she risked a step out from between the standing stones. The swarm creaked and clattered behind her, but all was silent ahead. Rinaari landed heavily behind her, shards of rock and dislodged algae glancing off the path and into the water.

'Move,' said the shiraar.

Siira took a deep breath. The raakinoi had been told time and time again to move slowly when advancing on an unknown threat: locate the foe and maintain a strong position, because a kabutops only loses when caught mid-leap, mid-stride, mid-strike. After the fight over the kiteraan, she disregarded it all. Talons digging into the stone, she barrelled forward, heart jumping with every splash of waves against the cliffside.

'Delfiir, move slowly!' called the kabtaar.

Rinaari had been quick to follow, but Tziir had continued his slow retreat. As soon as Siira reached the beach she looked back; the towering kabtaar was stumbling backward awkwardly as he tried to close the gap between them without turning his back and letting down his guard. Rinaari stopped at Siira's side, blunt scythes slicing the air in alarm.

'Just run!' she cried.

'If they reach us, if that swarm hits us again, it won't matter where our scythes are!'

Tziir let out a furious hiss. 'We're _kabutops_!'

He lunged forward suddenly, smashing one of the parasites against the ground with the flat of his scythe. His progress frozen halfway to the shore, he lashed out at his trilling entourage, batting three more into the water and cutting another clean through. The hiss hadn't stopped. It grew as he hacked at the creatures again and they darted over one another to escape; there was a recklessness to the kabtaar's strikes Siira had never witnessed before, a trembling fury that seemed to have overridden his earlier strategy.

'Go and help him!' Rinaari snarled. 'We can't lose him, not now.'

'I can't,' said Siira. 'There's no space. I can't get at them around him, I-'

There was blood in the water from the few casualties the kabtaar had inflicted, but that sharper, more defined splotch of red hanging just beneath the surface caught the delfiir's eye anyway.

'...They're in the water,' she said distantly, before drawing in breath.

'They're in the water!' both females called together.

Rinaari shot a concentrated plume into the carapace of the first one to break the surface, but it was the impact of the second against Tziir's leg that seemed to draw the kabtaar from his bloodlust. Blue eyes flashing, he wheeled suddenly around and charged toward the beach. Siira and Rinaari barely had time to jump out of the way; as he passed they raced after him, looking back only to ascertain the creatures weren't following. And they weren't. When the kabutops finally stopped, right at the base of the sand dunes, their pursuers were nothing more than a line of watchful blue carapaces in the surf and, one by one, they slowly turned and let the tide carry them back out to sea.

The shiraan was lost.


End file.
